End of Days  A new chapter every few weeks
by Crazy Joe the 59th
Summary: "What is one to do at end of days, when a man cannot even die with the comfort of knowing his loved ones will be safe?" Something terrible has happened and all of Runeterra feels it. Yet it is what lies in its wake that threatens the end of life itself.
1. Chapter 1

**End of Days**

"The land may melt, the sea may swell, the sky may fall… but they **will** come"

**Prologue**

It was a day as any other: the sun had risen that morning and it would set that evening; children had been born and elderly had died; pain had been endured and joy had been shared; there had been fighting, there had been peace – there had been a world; it was a day as any other. Deep within the Institute of War a battle raged upon one of the fields of justice. But this had become common place, often now the causes for matches were cared for by very few. Any small argument, any dispute, and a match was organised; it worked like clockwork, as fast and efficient as any good machine. To most of the population of Runeterra, the League of Legends was nothing more than an amusing game.

But it was on this day that something went wrong for the first time in a long time. As a novice summoner prepared to form another wave of minions, carelessly allowing his mind to wander off, everything went black. The air stood still and the light died: some shadow hand snatching the moment and asphyxiating it. Summoner and champion alike froze with confusion and fear, staring into the infinite abyss before their eyes. But as suddenly as it had begun – it came to an end. Sound filled the air once more, the wind whistled through the trees, and the light returned. All seemed normal. It was not until a few moments later that anyone realised: the darkness that had come had brought something with it.

There, in the dead centre of a middle lane, a single minion stood: a hunched and haunting figure standing spectral on the dirt – and as it opened its eyes, both Nexi shattered.

**Chapter 1: The Creature From The Middle Lane**

As he stepped into the darkness the hairs on his neck stood on end. He had been a summoner all his life, been part of the league from the very beginning; but never, never in all his days had he seen something like this. He had felt the air chill as Istvaan foolishly summoned the harbinger of doom, heard the horrified screams of champions as they ran from the tree that had come to life, even lived through the terror of the night culling – the days the summoners were killed by their dreams. Yet still, this was different, this felt far stranger: far more significant.

The old man took one further step, allowing the light of the dimly glowing bars to aluminate his face. There it sat, contained within a magical prison, the creature whose presence alone had destroyed two Nexi. It sat in a sombre silence, the yellow orbs that were its eyes, lying sunken in its shadowy face. "I told everyone else to leave the room. I wanted to speak with you alone." The summoner knelt down to reach the creature's level as he spoke – trying to feel whether there was evil in this accident.

Slowly it raised its head, small yellow lights, like that of its eyes, dancing around its face to form momentary expressions. "Why?"

"So it is true… you can speak." The summoner rose and messaged his brow. "But what are you?"

"I was about to ask you that… summoner. What am I? Why have you brought me here? What do you want from me?" The creature spoke in a strange tone, one that the summoner recognised; but from where, he could not recall. In a way it was as if the creature had two voices; that some quiet sinister hiss whispered just underneath the words it spoke.

The old man did not reply, instead he just stood there staring at the malformed minion. He pondered what powers had the abomination, whether it was deceiving him, whether it had dark intentions; when suddenly it surprised him. "Fine… then at least tell me your name. Please?"

There was then vulnerability in the creatures voice, like that of a lost child, a lonely isolated creature without a friend in the world. The summoner knelt down once more, his face giving the hint of a smile. "I am Altaarn Bastior, Arch Summoner of the League of Legends, one of the three."

The creature looked down for a moment, "One of… of the three?"

"The three: The High Council of Equity. There is I, Greyhamon Talon and Heyan Relivash. We are the heads of the Institute of War, of the League of Legends." As he spoke of his creation – his home, his friends – he smiled, beaming down warmly upon the being he had imprisoned.

The creature met his smile with one of his own: a small sphere of yellow light shot across his face, faintly painting the shape of a smile. It lasted for only a moment, but its sincerity was felt all the same. However, the feeling behind the smile disappeared as quickly as its light. "I… I would tell you my name now... but I do not have one."

"This is what I do not understand. You speak, you understand, you know I am a summoner, that I have imprisoned you. But you do not know who you are. How is this possible, little one?"

"I know I was brought here… by summoners… onto the field of battle. I know… I do not belong here." The creature spoke with a fear and uncertainty that replaced every ounce of suspicion with sympathy.

"But how do you know?"

It stopped then for a moment, the creature, it paused completely – unmoving as a statue. Slowly it lifted its head, and with its two yellow eyes glowing more intensely than before, it spoke. "_It_ told me."

The darkness in the room, before somehow comforting, quickly became unnerving. Altaarn stared at the creature, somewhat worried at his words. "_It_?"

"The voice… it speaks… it…" Once again the creature stopped, but this time, as he did, the darkness surrounding him spread; the bars that held him withered, and all over a strange feeling took to the air. Through the darkness, the voice that once whispered under the creature's spoke alone – but now it did not whisper, it bellowed. "You wish the world you know to end! Or you will mortal… you will!"

Altaarn stumbled backwards into the shadow, fear growing within his soul. He stretched out his arm, forming a ball of light in the palm of his hand and shining it onto the barely standing magical cage. He stared down at the creature, whose entire form was now masked in a darkness that his light could not penetrate. "Cho?"

But all that responded was a deep and terrible laughter, one that echoed throughout the room and into the farthest reaches of Altaarn's mind. Slowly it faded and too did the shadow. Within a moment as fleeting as the coming horror, everything returned to how it was. The small creature, now visible, was down on its knees breathing heavily. Slowly it looked up at the summoner, and in a terrified voice whimpered. "It speaks."

I I I

If he could have screamed loud enough to reach all of Runeterra he would have. But terrified cries ringing throughout the Institute of War would have to suffice. So he ran, his feet crashing like boulders upon the floor, his legs a flurry of frantic movement, he ran towards the main hall, crying to all heaven in fear and despair.

"THEY'RE GONE! THEY'VE ESCAPED! THEY'RE GONE!"

The novice summoner finally crashed through the great doors of the main hall, and as he did every head turned to face him. "They're gone!" he shouted one last time before finally collapsing in a heap upon the floor. An old man in long robes approached the young summoner, sighing as would a teacher at a foolish student.

"Get up Garna. What on earth has happened now?" asked the old man as he hauled the novice to his feet.

"They're gone… they're… they've just disappeared." The young man, now seeming more like a small boy, stared at his master with sheer horror painted across his face and embedded deep within his eyes. It was then when the old man realised, that perhaps, something was not quite right.

"Who are, Garna? Tell me who are gone, and from where?" 

"The prison cells… Cho'Gath, Nocturne, Brand… they're… they're all gone." The young summoner then grabbed his master by the collar, "and the eastern wing… the sealed chamber… the doors are open… the room is empty." 

"Fiddlesticks has moved? And the others…" The old man looked about himself in confusion, how could any of this be? "Are you sure Garna? ARE YOU SURE!"

"Yes master… I'm afraid so."

"Very well." The old man pushed the boy aside and took in a deep breath. "Seal off all exits! Search the grounds! We ne…" But the shouting was suddenly silenced, as one of the smaller doors swung open with a furious speed.

For the second time that afternoon every head in the main hall turned with eager surprise to see what was happening. It was Altaarn and he was not happy. He stepped into the main hall with a look on his face that could have frightened a typhoon. Every pair of eyes in the room watched as he walked silently into the centre of the room, and patiently they awaited his word. But it did not come.

Instead someone brave enough to do so stepped out of the crowd and spoke. A great knight covered in crystal: Taric. "Arch Summoner, did you not hear, Cho…"

"I heard very well, thank you Taric."

"But aren't you…"

"I am." The Arch Summoner raised his hand, and with one monumental snap clicked his fingers. As he did, every door in the Institute of war swung open – a great gust of wind soaring throughout the mighty building. "MALZAHAR!" Altaarn bellowed with such a volume that the ground beneath him almost shook. So it was not long before a small purple figure began to grow larger in one of the distant corridors.

Slowly floating through the air, two wretched and hideous beasts at his sides, came the demented prophet that was Malzahar. He moved into the centre of the great room and there he took to the floor, patting the larger and more fearsome of the two creatures upon the head. "You called?"

"You must have heard of what has happened, or perhaps you even saw it coming, I for one don't care, but I know you know. This has your stink about it Malzahar: you and that disgusting pet of yours." Save for the Arch Summoner's words the room was enthralled into a deathly stillness. Nothing moved, no one spoke, all there was, was this confrontation.

"Don't be so cruel to Kog'Maw, you'll hurt his feelings. And what would make you think that I had any involvement in this?" The half glowing figure smirked as he spoke, his deep purple eyes lighting up, revelling in the situation.

"The creature that spawned today, the mutated minion, he says he hears voices, voices of a strange land that speak of a coming tide, that weave horrific and indescribable images. He told me this, right after he spoke in the voice of a friend of yours. And now four of the most dangerous creatures the institute of war has ever kept as prisoners have miraculously escaped."

"I hardly think…"

"Where were you the day Arch Summoner Talon fell ill? Don't you play the fool with me! You all too well he is sick! Caught by some half magical fever which causes him to have terrible hallucinations. This, all of this, it all wreaks of…"

But the summoner was not allowed to speak. Now, it would seem, it was the mage-prophet's turn. "So Cho'Gath has left. Why are you so surprised? Was it not you who said this would happen? Woe betide the day Cho'Gath grows weary of the league."

Altaarn huffed in anger, disgusted by Malzahar's insolence. "That was a long time ago, before we knew we could hold him!"

"Perhaps you could never hold him."

"Perhaps you freed him!"

"And how would I do that?" As the strange mage shouted his terrible pets began to growl. "You stand here hurling accusations at me with nothing! No proof what so ever! Have I not always been a loyal champion of the league?"

"You snivelling wretch! You did have something to do with this, didn't you?" All of a sudden, as before, Taric stepped in.

"And what would you do if I did, Taric? Is this some kind of delusional righteous challenge?"By this point Kog'Maw had begun barking, snapping his maw wildly in defence of his master. "You are a fool. But this is well known. You however, you came to this conclusion so quickly. But not quick enough. You are wiser than I thought you were Altaarn, I shall give you that. But now I must leave: the second sight ordains it." And in a wavy haze of distortion the mad prophet was gone.

"What does he think he's doing! That imbecile, he's going to start some kind of war like this!"

"Sir…" began Taric attempting to help, but he could not.

"Be quiet will you? Garna!"

"Yes master!" Replied the young man who was now even more shaken than when he had run into the main hall.

"Send a message to Zaun, that Arch Summoner Relivash must return as soon as possible, that it is an emergency." Altaarn then turned to the older man standing next to the novice. "Feramere, gather the most senior of the summoners and mages and join me in war room."

"Yes master." The old man, now almost as bumbling as his apprentice. "When?"

"NOW!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Whispers in the dark**

The dirty streets of outer Noxus are home to many terrible things: evils that prey on the weak in the dark, the more subtle horrors of disease and poverty, the cruel hand of the corrupt. In the overcrowded slums and homesteads that sit like a rotting maze around the mighty city state there are many things that people have to fear - but none so much as the man of metal. There in the dank darkness, there in some alley deep within the labyrinth of homes – there within the thick of the musky fog of desperation and suffering sits he.

He is, as many of the terrors of this world are, a creature not from this world. None know from whence he came, none know why he came; none even know what he is. He is known only as 'Mordekaiser: the master of metal', the hulking terrible form of steel and shadow – and there in the slums of Noxus he sits, there he waits, feeding off sickness, revelling serenely in the suffering. That is, when he isn't fighting in the league of legends. Calling down his dark powers upon champions on the fields of justice, caring little for who he fights for and why they wish it of him.

But this night his silent residence would be interrupted, as he would have a caller: a floating figure clad in purple, a dark skinned man with glowing eyes: a mad prophet.

"Why have you come here?"

Malzahar chuckled, "Always so formal, I've always liked that, you know?"

"Do not waste my time with your foolish comments human. Answer my question."

The floating wizard descended to a standing position and bowed. "I have come to offer a proposition to you."

The hulking form of obsidian sighed and turned his head away. "What could a madman as you possibly offer me?" He then shifted in his seat, the sound of steel on steel clawing at the air. "Leave me Malzahar; go back to your senseless dreams."

But the prophet of the void did not move, he did not smile and he did not laugh. He took a small moment of pause, and then in a solemn tone, he spoke. "I can bring you your people."

I I I

"We must prepare for all-out war!" shouted one of the most senior and embittered of the summoners now within the grand conference room. His face was a mix of scars and wrinkles, his tone a mix of hatred and cynicism.

"Do not be so stupid Helaran, we cannot jump to such conclusions," replied a much younger summoner sitting at the other end of the large round table, one hand upon his forehead.

"I have jumped to nowhere! We are being thrown these conclusions, and you might learn your place, young one!" The old man slammed his fist against the table and rose. "War will consume this land if we do not act quickly. We are charged with keeping peace, and now that an hour of need comes, what do we do: sit here and argue! We have little time to act my brothers… especially if we fear that Nocturne may return to old habits." At Heleran's last phrase the entire room fell to a deathly silence. They all remembered the days of the night culling, the fear the darkness had instilled in them. Many summoners still could not sleep in total shadow, not without a light: without a flame to ward of that black monster.

Finally through the terrified silence one voice rose. "Four of the most powerful beings in all of Runeterra are roaming free. Noxus and Demacia still lie in unrest. Injustice and violence rampage across the land. There is only so much we can do. But this, _this_ we can stop. Something is happening, I feel it in my soul, something is being played out here, some long since forged plan." Altaarn spoke with a wisdom that few owned; he had a presence about him, a way that made the air stand still: a voice that made each word seem more important than it was.

"You predict some plot? Of what kind?" asked a summoner near the back of the room. She was fairly young, her expression wracked with worry.

"Perhaps to some extent Heleran is right. Perhaps whoever has done this, whether it be Malzahar or not, they plan to force some all-consuming war. I fear someone has planned the destruction of order." The old man replied with a hint of fear in his tone; but only hint, he was careful to not have those around him hear the terror that haunted their leader's mind.

"But why, why would anyone want that?" Voices within the room began to rise. They were disgusted, confused, they needed to know, and to Altaarn they pleaded for answers.

"Why else?" interjected Heleran. "For control! Someone with much darker intentions than we wishes to claim the power we have earned. I believe they wish to abolish the league!" At this there was even more shouting. People argued, others simply gasped. This was all far too much, even for the wise and intellectual senior mages and summoners.

Altaarn himself was helpless to hush the chaos, he had no more answers, he had no more wisdom; all that was left within him now was worry – worry and uncertainty. Why today, why the escape and the creation of that being? Why would anyone free those monsters, even to cause war? None of it made sense; it was all as confusing and disorganized within his mind as it was within his room of council.

But then another spoke. A figure that was sat in the back, shrouded by shadow, draped in a brown hooded cloak. The strange form stepped forward and with two words banished all sound. "SHUT UP!" Every head turned to the figure that now stood in the centre of the room; the shabbily dressed man of shadow whose face none could see, but whose voice all had clearly heard.

"And what say you stranger?" asked the young summoner who had first questioned Heleran.

"What say I?" he replied, his tone tinged with sarcasm. "I say, that you're all acting like idiots. You have no idea what is going on."

Heleran promptly stepped forward. "And you do? What are you even doing in here? You are no summoner I know! Who are you? Show yourself!"

The stranger chuckled. "I may not be a summoner, but I assure you I have more right to be here than most of you do."

Heleran laughed, attempting to patronise the hooded man before him. But he showed no sign of irritation; he just ignored the old man, which he knew very well would only offend him even further. "Get out!"

At this the figure removed his hood, and with his alabaster gaze piercing through and shattering Heleran's threatening disposition, Ryze replied, "Say that again."

Heleran sank into himself; he took two steps backward and in a mousy voice said "What… What are _you_ doing here?"

"I have come because you need to know the truth. But I sat in the back because I was interested to see whether you'd figure it out for yourselves. Obviously that was giving you all far too much credit. Although…" the blue skinned mage paused and scratched his bald head, "I suppose it would have been difficult for you to know what's going out without first having the right information."

"Ryze" said Altaarn as he re-joined the discussion at hand. "What are you talking about? You are making no sense my friend."

"None of this makes any seeming sense, does it? You haven't been paying attention that's why! None of you pay attention! You sit in here high up on your chairs, watching the matches and discussing politics and reading your books, but you don't pay attention – not to magic." Ryze was frantic as he spoke, but this was always his way, it was as if his mind worked at double the speed of everyone else's and his mouth struggled to keep up with it. His robe lay on the floor now, his naked blue chest and pink tattoos on display to everyone. He hated wearing a robe.

"We are mages! You may be a champion of the league but that gives you no right to criticise us true academi…" But Ryze would not let the middle aged man in the silver robe finish. He had no time for ignorance.

"You don't pay attention! There's something wrong, and you should know this! You should feel it! I could feel it, I _can_ feel it… but I was unsure, until I asked _him_: until I investigated."

Altaarn tried his best to follow along to Ryze's disjointed speech, but he couldn't. "Ryze, slow down. Ask who? Investigate what?"

The blue mage sighed and shook his head. "KASSADIN!" Then in a purple flash another stranger appeared. A man clad in armour and tubing, a figure of black metal and stained skin. Kassadin, ever floating, stood within the air by Ryze's side. "Tell them."

"I am sorry for the intrusion Arch summoner, this was all _his_ plan. He wanted to make an impression." As the dark figure before him apologised, Altaarn smiled. He had always found the contrast of Kassadin's appearance to his demeanour amusing.

"And made one you have. Now explain yourselves. What exactly is going on?"

Kassadin looked at the ground before he spoke, as if he needed to prepare himself for the words that were about to leave his lips – and thus, as he spoke, everyone in the room understood why. "The void is coming."

Altaarn stared with wide frightened eyes: eyes that refused to believe. "What? What do you mean?"

"It is as the madman preached, as I believed I saw once, long ago. The dark gods of Icathia come, the space between worlds is bleeding into the air, Altaarn; the void is come." Kassadin spoke with a solemn sadness, he truly comprehended the weight of his words, and he felt them sink as lead within the air.

"This is why, Altaarn! This is why he has freed those creatures, this is why your monster was born this morning!" shouted Ryze, almost excited by it all.

"You know about that?"

"I know everything!" he snapped, offended by implication that he didn't.

Altaarn took a moment to think about it all, then he looked at Kassadin and with one moment given to hope he asked "Are you sure?" Kassadin nodded, and the moment died. Foolish hope was buried within the arch summoner's mind and the need for action born. "Ok. Then what do we do?" He did not ask this so much because he thought he needed advice, but more because the expression on Ryze's face needed to be satisfied. The blue mage stared at Altaarn eagerly waiting to be sort for counsel; it was clear to Altaarn that Ryze already had a plan, he already knew precisely what had to be done.

"We need time. They will come, we cannot stop them, but when they do we will need an army bigger than ever seen before in order to only hold them back."

Heleran stepped forward for the first time in several minutes. "Hold them back for what?"

"What needs to be done – in order to stop them consuming everything. In order to save life itself."

I I I

"How will you do this?" questioned the booming voice of the master of metal.

"When the gap between worlds has broken its own boundaries… it is far easier to get from one world to another." Malzahar stared with mad ambition at the colossal form that now stood before him: his purple eyes longing for an agreement - glowing through the shadow that masked the rest of his body.

"Why would you do this for me?"

"I explained, when the tides come, at first the will come slow. I will need your forces as allies, we will need time. And…" Mordekaiser chuckled then, knowing there would be an 'and.'

"And what?" Malzahar smiled at him, he could see it all coming together.

"They will try to stop me; somehow they may find a way to prevent the inevitable. You would be amazed how well mortals can stall fate. I will need forces ready to counteract any operation that threatens the joining. Icathia beckons my friend, but they… those wretched summoners and their pathetic champions, they want to silence her callings. I can see it now; I can feel it all fall apart. We must stop them. Together." At this the crazed prophet stretched out one hand. But Mordekaiser was still reluctant.

"And when they all lie dead…" the metal one began.

"This world will be yours." The fleshy one finished.

"And then what of you and your creatures?" This was what Mordekaiser was uncertain about. Why would Malzahar not simply just take the world he destroyed, what else could he want.

"We will return to the void. There are other worlds that need cleansing." Mordekaiser chuckled once more, but now he did with sick glee, imaging all the death and destruction, all the sorrow and suffering.

"Then we are at an accord. I await your return." With that the master of metal sat back down, and had he a face he would have smiled, had he the capacity to feel warmth he would have surged with it.

"You await your people."

I I I

"I will need a team" insisted Ryze.

"What for?"

"I will need a team!" he repeated.

"Yes, very well, of whom?"

"I shall decide! I have decided. It is no one here, you will be needed in the fight."

The summoner's probed and probed, but Ryze would never explain. Eventually Altaarn had enough of it, and so he made that clear. "Ryze! We. Need. To. Know."

The blue mage sighed, his erraticism calming momentarily. "Very well. When I was first a student of magic many years ago…"

"What does this have to do with…" began a summoner attempting to interrupt before being counter-interrupted.

"Listen! See, this is what I mean, you don't pay attention, you need to pay…" And then Altaarn continued the interruption chain.

"Ryze! Please, just go on."

"Fine." He rubbed his large brow a moment and then continued. "When I was first a student of magic, a long, long time ago, my master told my class of a legend. He spoke of an ancient spell, one no one is certain to have truly existed. And sure, we were told these kinds of story all the time, all mages tell these tales, of legendary spells and ancient techniques and long since dead masters whose power will never be matched. But this, this stuck with me. He told us about a spell once created by an ancient cabal of wizards, a spell used to travel to other worlds; a technique that allowed them to seek far off planes of existence and go to them, to traverse these strange worlds and study them. You summoners have created spells that can, at random, draw creatures from other worlds to this one. Quote in point, we have our Taric, our Anivia. But nothing, nothing like this. Nothing that could allow you to view all the worlds in existence and then pick one and travel to it."

"Now, I became obsessed with this legend, and as I travelled across the land and as I studied under one master and another, I would ask them, I would always ask if they knew of the legend, and none did. Until one day, many, many years after, while studying under the watchful eye of an old crone who lived just outside of Freljord, I brought up the legend and she told me she knew of it. But the version she knew differed greatly to mine. She told me there was a cabal of wizards long ago who attempted to develop such a spell, but what they created in the end was nothing that they had planned. You see they had planned to create a bridge of powerful energy, one that would penetrate the barrier between worlds and allow them to pass from one place to another. But when it came to testing it, the outcome was not as they had expected."

"They made their bridge, they penetrated through the barrier, and they struck their other world with force so powerful, with a beam of energy so focused and so unrelenting, that rather than creating a connection, rather than joining with the other world, it did not stop. They destroyed that world, and killed every creature that lived there. The crone went on to explain that the cabal then split up, each wizard taking a torn piece of the scroll that the spell was written upon: for certainly it could never be used again, but to utterly destroy such a masterpiece would be an insult to magic. I asked her where these pieces were now. She told me they were scattered, and that I should not go looking for them. I told her I needed to know, that I needed proof that it was true, that I just needed to know. And that's when she told me; that's when she took me to a small room of her house and opened an ancient black box. There before me, given to her by her father, from his father, and his, in the wake of many, many generations before, lay a piece of the scroll. So it was true, and with me pretending my appetite was sated I returned to study."

"But it was not over. That night I broke into that room and I stole that piece of scroll, and those many years I searched the globe for the rest of them."

Ryze stopped, a strange calmness hanging over his body, a kind of regret, an almost sadness. Altaarn stared at the blue mage, half amazed and half terrified. "Did you find them?"

"Of course I found them, and here on my back they lie fixed together, here on my back lies the words of the most dangerous spell ever created."

"So your original master was wrong then?" asked a female voice that came from behind Ryze.

"In theory I believe they both were right, and that is why the spell is so dangerous. It does not only create a bridge, it does not only destroy, it can do both. This is why, I believe, the cabal went their separate ways; some wanted the spell to cause destruction and others did not." He sighed once more, "This is why ignorance is bliss."

"But what does this have to do with our situation?"

Ryze stared at Altaarn, his expression grave for the first time he had ever seen it: his white eyes bearing the burden of the truth that had to be realised. "There is no stopping the void Altaarn. It will come, it will consume, this world will become nothing – and if it is not stopped the void will destroy every world in existence."

"So what must we do?" asked the old man, ready for the answer he already knew.

"We must leave this place. I and my team must ready a bridge while you and your army stem the tide. And then, once those we can make safe are safe, we must destroy Runeterra and all the foulness that remains on it."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Blood**

Flames flickered in his dreams that night - orange glows caressing murky shadows; yellow tongues licking the darkness; burning grins within the black. He rolled in unrest, his heart rejecting the sleep that lulled his force – hushing his will to wake. But the fire grew within him, the burning spread like ink through water, turning the soothing darkness of dream into the flashing chaos of nightmare. Rage and flame, screaming and violence – the pounding pounding pounding, the rising rising heat – laughter and crying, fighting and fleeing: then he woke. His skin wet with cold sweat, his eyes bloodshot and tired, his heart beating like a frantic drum: he awoke, looking around himself in panic and urgency.

There it was: the screaming and pounding, all around him, as if his nightmares had followed him into reality. But rather it was reality that had, beforehand, crept into his dreams. The laughter and crying, the fighting and fleeing, the rage and flame, it was all real, and it all thundered outside his window. Away he pushed his sweat soaked blanket and towards the glass he ran, quickly he flung open the shutter and with shocked eyes he saw it: the palace was being sieged; Demacia was under attack.

At that moment the door to his chamber was thrown open. "Sire, you're awake! Finally. Thank the heavens. Quickly sir, you must get dressed!" The man who now had entered the room was Karson Ironfel, one of the mightiest soldiers of the Demacian army. The old and grizzled man stood heavily in the doorway. A veteran of the Dauntless Vanguard, a master sergeant whose stern determination and quick mind were a match to nearly none, and a blade whose swiftness and force was unseen anywhere outside of The League itself: the aged soldier seemed to scare away even the shadows that lingered within the room. But it was more than just metaphor, and Jarvan noticed this. As Karson stared down the darkness of his chamber the shadow yielded slightly, creeping back into its corners, daring not to touch the indomitable man.

"Why wasn't I awakened?" shouted the prince as he hurriedly placed on his armour. Jarvan never allowed this ritual to involve another.

"We attempted to my prince, but no matter how we tried you would not rouse. So I was posted to your door, lest anything attack you while you slept, or should you awaken." As he spoke the old man too noticed the shadows in the room moving within their darkened hollows. It seemed that small wisps of black were now collecting in the more shaded parts of the room – as if armies of shadowy ants had retreated from battle, now hidden within their dusky citadels.

"What do you mean? Was I under some sort of spell, have I been poisoned?" Jarvan span to face his guardian with an offended and angered expression.

"I do not know sir" began Karson, his eyes moving from wall to wall. "But I am starting to fear that whatever force lulled you into its hazy grip may still remain within this room."

"What on earth are you…" began Jarvan, and then the claws came.

"Nocturne you foul wretch!" Karson leapt, sword in hand, at the arms that protruded out of the shadow. He pushed the half-dressed prince of Demacia to the floor, and with an angered cry stabbed the darkness. But the darkness too stabbed him.

"Karson!" cried Jarvan, noticing the red droplets collecting upon the floor.

"Get out of here my prince, you are needed on the battlefield… your father is safe… Xin Zhao has taken him to the hold." There he stood, that man who was more bear than human: one hand on the hilt of his own blade, one on the very edge of his enemy's – holding it back, caring nothing for the deep cut in his palm. Nocturne's other blade lay in deep in Karson's shoulder, but still, even for this, he barely winced.

"But…"

"Go! If _you_ can fight this beast, then I'll have him mopped up within moments." Nocturne forced forward, Karson forced back, twisting the blade that lay in shady belly of his foe. "Get to the battlefield!"

So Jarvan left him. He picked up his armour, grabbed his lance from the wall and ran. "For Demacia!" he shouted as he went, 'For Demacia!' echoed Karson's voice from behind him. He was certain Karson would be fine; Nocturne may be a monster, but had Karson not been ally perhaps Jarvan would have thought him a monster too.

Through the palace hallways he ran, ready and unafraid. He had defeated almost every enemy put before him, this would be no different. This would just be another victory. This would be – he flung wide the palace doors – a disaster.

Demacia lay in ruins before him. The white towers, the golden buildings, they burned, they all burned. There was no order to this fight, no rank and file, only screaming and death. Bodies either drenched in blood or burnt to coal lay all around him, littering the streets. Where were the forces, what was going on? How did they get this far into Demacia? Whoever they were.

Then across the courtyard ran a lone soldier. Wounded and weary he limped as he fled, but he would not escape. A cascade of flame soon erupted around him, and in a terrible instant it engulfed the man. The laughter came then: the dark and deep laughter of a being Jarvan knew well. There he was – the man of fire – Brand made his way into the middle of the courtyard, stepping over the smouldering corpse he only a few moments ago had created.

"Prince Jarvan, I hoped Nocturne would fail. I wanted to watch you die myself." As he spoke the burn of his flesh intensified, his rage fuelling his dark magic.

"How did you escape Brand? How did you get this far!" For a moment the death and despair disappeared. There was only the mystery of Brand's appearance, and the outrage at his audacity.

"We were helped."

Jarvan glared at him, "Helped, by who?" Brand said nothing, then Jarvan realised. "Wait. What do you mean by _we_?"

The air rushed behind him, the darkness spread like sickness; the noise rose, the crying rose, the terror rose. Like death itself had taken form, he felt the power of fear and doom surge behind him. It forced its way forward, it took hold of him. There was no escaping this: it had to be endured. He felt the pain, the agony, the dread. He felt it all as he had so many times before. He felt it come for him – the cawing cawing cawing of the crows.

I I I

They stood there, cold and uncertain, shadows hanging heavy upon their backs like cloaks of smouldered iron. Xin Zhao gripped his spear with white knuckled keenness: he was prepared, for whatever would dare to come, he was prepared. His king stood behind him, the two men almost trapped by the walls that promised to protect them. The screaming just outside, the danger just outside, the home they knew and loved drenched in blood – just outside.

King Jarvan's mind was elsewhere: he thought of his son. The man he saw as his boy somewhere not so far from him, but so very far from safety. He had witnessed his son leave for battle many times, but this felt different. This had not been planned, this was part of no war; this was not a battle, this was a massacre. How had they made their way so deep into Demacia? Who exactly was attacking them? Every flame of hope lay doused by doubt, every ounce of courage weighed further down by anxiety, lying heavy in their stomachs: pounds of fear.

"Whatever lies out there, whatever horror may come, I will destroy it – know this my lord." Xin Zhao's words comforted the king as much they could. But still, they both felt unnerved and out of place. To be in the battle would be one thing, to be away another; but this, this was torture. They could hear the violence, they could feel it, but it would not come for them. No, they were encased – confined by slab and steel and shadow, waiting, waiting for something. But little did they know: something waited for them.

Orange smoke, wicked laugh: he rose from nothing, that terrible creature, that demon of murder and humiliation; he came for them, the clown with glowing eyes. At the kings back, behind his shoulder blades, rose two shining daggers – two fangs drenched in death, ready to feast.

And they would have landed, they would have. Xin Zhao turned too slow, he felt the air move too late, his retaliation would have been too weak. Those gleaming blades would have pierced the king's flesh, they would have dived into his body, claiming the blood and soul within. Shaco would have cackled, Xin Zhao would have screamed, the king would have died – if it weren't for that marvellous rat.

In a double reveal of terror followed by glee, another form appeared: he who had been waiting. So as those two daggers came down, as Comedy and Tragedy made their way through the air, two arrows – two filthy darts – clashed with Shaco's steel. The daggers were sent off course, the clown's grin turned to grimace, and as Shaco quickly shuffled backwards, Xin Zhao moved forwards with true disdain flowing through his veins. Twitch aimed his crossbow once more, the king drew his sword, Xin Zhao lanced forward his spear. They would have killed him, they would have. Had he been anyone else they would have. But he wasn't. He was Shaco.

Orange smoke, wicked laugh: he turned to nothing, that terrible creature, that demon of murder and humiliation; he had escaped them, that clown with glowing eyes. Twitch un-cocked his crossbow, placing the arrow back within his side-quiver, and bowed to the king. "Your majesty."

The king was still in shock. This little creature had saved his life, this malformation of science gone wrong had succeeded where Xin Zhao would have failed. "Zaun be praised," the king exulted, re-sheathing his sword. "You… You were waiting for him?"

Twitch smiled nervously, "I was waiting for you, I didn't know what would come."

Xin Zhao stepped forward; he looked twitch over and nodded. He was a man of little words Xin Zhao, more a spear than a man: a true silent guardian. Twitch nodded back, they had met before, but never so intimately, and never had they talked. "You have done Demacia a great service," the king then paused, a soft emotion coming over him, "and to me, an immeasurable one. From the bottom of my heart, truly, I thank you."

"You should thank Ryze too," replied the creature, his voice almost as fidgety as his posture.

"Ryze? The mage?" The king turned to Xin Zhao, then back to Twitch.

"What does he have to do with this?"

"He sent me," the half-rat looked about himself, "two days I've been in this room, waiting. He told me they'd attack. Demacia first he said. Then Noxus. Then Ionia. They'd leave Zaun he said."

"Who would?"

Twitch stared at the king with eyes that didn't quite conceive. The king was terrified, even Xin Zhao felt tremors in his stone soul; but Twitch, Twitch didn't quite understand what was going on. All he had ever known was fighting and hiding, so how could this be any different than the usual. "Those who wish the world to end."

I I I

"It has been two days and nothing has happened!" Ryze sat head in hands, his ears near deafened by Helaran's incessant complaining.

"I'm pretty sure any minute now…" Then fate struck.

"DEMACIA HAS BEEN ATTACKED!"

Ryze grinned, he shouldn't have, but he did. "Well, who would have thought it? Oh yes, me." Helaran glared at him, the league stared, no matter what their opinion was all eyes were on Ryze.

"By the heavens, this is really happening isn't it?" They would have broken into panic, even Ryze was now feeling it: the pressure, the despair; he was right, he loved to be right, but not like this, not at the end of the world. But a small and precise voice emerged from the crowd averting the terror. With small calculated steps he approached Ryze, and with hopeful and reassuring eyes he stared at him.

"Well, you need your team good sir. Who must we call?" Ryze smiled softly at Heimerdinger. No tragedy could defy his logic, no destruction hinder his faith, the little man was a genius, and genius was his shield.

"My friend," began Ryze, "I would not dare go anywhere without you."

Heimerdinger grinned, "Excellent! I assume Kassadin will come too!"

"No, Kassadin must stay, he is needed far too greatly on the battlefield." He paused. "Speaking of the battlefield, the time has come to unite! Altaarn you must send emissaries to each nation, they must know what is happening; we must gather as great a force as possible!" The old summoner nodded, the time for planning and arguing had finished, now was a time for action.

"Ulrick, take your team to Zaun; Orfast you will go to Ioania; Varity, make haste for Noxus; I am sure if Demacia is well aware of the situation by now." He looked to Ryze.

"Twitch will be regaling them with the tale as we speak."

"Good." He was confused as to what Twitch had to do with anything, but there was not time for questions. "Someone get to Piltover and Bandle City, and whoever can stand the cold alert Freljord! I expect you to be back within the day!" With that, many of the summoners within the room disappeared, each vanishing to a mass of yellow rings.

"Now this team of yours." Heimerdinger was still standing right beside Ryze, still bright eyed, still brimming with excitement.

"I will need…" Ryze thought for a moment. "Xerath, Le Blanc, Garson Orswell and…" he hesitated, he knew what reaction he would get. "Vladimir."

"WHAT?" Heimerdinger near burst, Altaarn stared with confused eyes, and as for the rest of the room, most of them felt a little sick. "Why would you bring that monster with us?"

"We are going to need a hemomancer." As much as Ryze would rather of had it the other way, it was true, he needed Vladimir. "It's the only way."

"he hasn't fought in the league for years. No this is ridiculous, he… he is ridiculous. We will find someone else." Heimerdinger would not budge.

"We can't"

"Where there's a will there's…"

"No, we really can't! There is only ever one hemomancer, that's how it works. Only one. No other. Just Valdimir."

The little man with the oversized head stared at the ground and near fell over. He sighed. "But all that blood."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Angels and Demons**

Heimerdinger scribbled with hands so fast that he seemed to have no command over them. But of course he did – every flick, every scratch, every carving and placing of ink had its place and purpose. He moved with order, not chaos: and his order was fast.

"You write with both hands at once?" Thought Ryze aloud.

"Yes."

They sat in a dark room somewhere in a forgotten corner of the institute of war. They had been left there by Altaarn, who in a worried manner had rushed off to check on Arch Summoner Talon. The entire building was buzzing with movement: summoners and mages rushing in and out of rooms, teleporting from one place to another, sending this or that message. Everywhere was buzzing. But here – but this shady hollow where two of the greatest minds in all of Runeterra sat, and did so in discontent.

"I still believe there must be another way about this." The Yordle did not look up as he spoke. Whatever he was working on, it too deserved as much attention as Ryze.

"No. This is it. We're out of options, the void will come and we have…" He was interrupted.

"No, no, no. About Vladimir. I understand perfectly about the ending of this world. Order-Entropy: an endless cycle. This is our entropic climax, there will be order again." It was then that he looked up, and he did so only to smile. He could sense a grief overcoming Ryze; the blue mage's frantic disposition had slowly been fading, and this, even above the idea of Vladimir, troubled the small scientist the most.

"I suppose. But there is nothing we can do about either of our situations. We must commence thus." Ryze stood up and walked towards a curtained window. He couldn't decide whether he wanted to look outside or not. What was worse: to have one last look at the world before it burned, or to not? But he thought, 'the world will not burn, it will drown.'

"We should find another hemomancer. Or…" he held up his paper, "MAKE ONE!"

"Impossible."

Ryze was deadpan. There was no hope in the foolishness of Heimerdinger's words.

"But I've done all the calculations and…"Ryze stopped him.

"It's impossible. You can't just make…"So Heimerdinger returned the favour.

"Garson Orswell made Blitzcrank! Someone made twitch! Why can we not…"

"Just stop!" Ryze had had enough. Heimerdinger was one of those men who could not comprehend the idea of not being able to comprehend something. So he forced the things he did understand at his ignorance, eventually they would break it – that or smother it to death. "You are a great scientist. A genius of regular engineering and techmaturgy alike. But this…" Ryze rubbed his prominent brow and sighed, "this is old magic, my friend. Very, very old magic."

Heimerdinger glares at him a little, "What are you implying? That I do not understand what we are dealing with."

"I'm not implying it Heimerdinger, I'm outright saying it." Ryze smirked, and the small scientist laughed. Ryze had regained his charisma, and this was enough to offset any minor insult.

"Very well, explain."

"They say… _They_ say, whoever _they _are, but they do say it. They say that the great demon Alzantra, one of the old gods, one of the otherworld beings born far before we had the grace to strike flint on stone, and make fire – was one day wounded gravely by his brother. As _they_ will tell you, Alzantra was a greed demon of blood: a lecherous, decadent and sadistic creature who found his bliss in collecting the flesh and blood of other creatures, storing them within his body, growing stronger from their spiritual and physical power. But as I was saying, he was wounded by his brother: a greed demon of metal, who disliked Alzantra's crude and graphic obsessions."

"Now it goes that as Alzantra lay there dying: struggling to keep his blood from outpouring and drowning the grass beneath him, lamenting over the loss of his life – a humble shaman walked passed him." This is where Heimerdinger began to chuckle. He knew exactly where this was going.

"They made a pact, didn't they?"

Ryze grinned. "So _they_ say. Alzantra promised the shaman eternal life in exchange for carrying his dying spirit within his body. Alzantra would pour his own blood and spirit into the man's body, and symbiotically they would exist together: half greed demon of blood, half human shaman. The primitive mage agreed, and so, the first hemomancer was born. And to this day the process remains." Ryze paused. Heimerdinger waited. Ryze continued to pause.

"I don't understand," the Yordle began begrudgingly. "Please continue."

The blue mage grinned once more. "To become a hemomancer, one must accept the blood and soul of their master. Eventually the shaman grew weary of life, he took an apprentice, taught him his ways, and then made the same bargain Alzantra had made with him. So it was, so it is, and so it will always be. Every. Time."

The story was silly, but Heimerdinger enjoyed hearing it, and Ryze enjoyed telling. "Does this mean, every hemomancer is more powerful than the last?"

"Indeed." Ryze turned back to the curtain once more.

"Wait, wait, wait..." Heimerdinger had found a flaw in Ryze's so called 'old magic'. "If they take in the blood of their master, who did the same with their master before them, and so on, and so on for thousands of years… HOW ON RUNETERRA DO THEY FIT ALL THAT BLOOD WITHIN THEIR BODIES?"

Ryze fiddled with the velvet. "Old magic, my friend. OId magic. Maybe it fades, or gets used up, or… maybe it's still all there, compressed and compressed and compressed: thousands of years' worth of magical blood quivering and convulsing within that body; ancient as the craft he weaves, laden with the hate of a hundred men before him, ready to drown or crush as river or tempest: an ocean of sanguine dwelling in that little man."

A chill of memory froze the air then, and the blood halted in their veins: afraid it would be stolen, taken by the crimson reaper, added to the collection – teardrops to the sea.

I I I

He fought both of them. Wounded and weary, he fought both of them. That face of stitches and those eyes of flame, they came to kill: without mercy, without hesitation, they came to kill. Jarvan leapt backwards, barely avoiding a great conflagration, his armour crashing hard against the stone as he landed. A quick eye to the left, a sudden jerk of hand – he caught a crow mid-flight and crushed it in his fist. The dark magic dispersed, and Fiddlesticks snarled as he threw yet another bird of black.

Jarvan raised his lance and ran forward. He dodged a ball of flame, he parried a black winged familiar, he lunged, he struck. In a flash of steel and spray of straw, Jarvan cleft the scarecrow's chest. The terrible creature buckled backwards and winced, but he was far from finished. Out the great hole Jarvan's lance had created a green glow began to emanate, and soon it reached for the prince.

As Jarvan turned to face Brand he felt the drain upon his flesh. The vile magic stretched out from Fiddlesticks' chest and pulled at Jarvan's soul, drinking from it with an avaricious appetite. Brand smiled as Jarvan struggled to reach him, his strength exiting through green portal and giving its loyalty to the scarecrow that stood at the other end.

The man of flame began to laugh, the scarecrow's cackle joined the choir, Jarvan's hope was dwindling, but he would not give in. He stomped, agonising footfall after agonising footfall, towards the fiery figure who did nothing but stand there – and in that final moment where he would have died, Jarvan reached out, willing his grip to encircle Brand's neck.

Then it came: a great beam of light, a great scream of voice, a beautiful moment of skill and fervour. "DEMACIA!" Suddenly Fiddlesticks found himself consumed by rays more powerful than that of the sun, and the force that followed them sent him crashing into a wall. Jarvan grinned, Brand glared, and the prince's will was done. He grabbed the coal man by his scorched and scorching neck, pulling his form closer. Jarvan felt the heat rise, he would have moved to dodge, but he didn't need to. An all too familiar sound was coursing towards him.

A circle of fire rose at Jarvan's feet, and within seconds it became a pillar: a wiring torrent of red and orange. But just before it did, the prince was caught by a small ball of light, and as it hit him it became a shield. Jarvan felt not the fire, nor the heat of it: he stood there only smiling, holding that fiery monster by the neck, lifting him two feet from the ground.

As the pillar faded, Jarvan lifted Brand slightly higher before sending him forcefully into the ground, shattering the stone beneath him. The demon spluttered molten stone, his burning excuse for blood – his wicked imitation of pain. With a heavy fist Jarvan punched Brand on the flat on his face, and then commenced to repeat.

But the caw stopped him. Jarvan rolled out of the way, a small murder of crows flying to Brand's protection. But as they neared him Lux finally arrived on the scene. She stepped forward, and with a wave of her staff sent a small ball of light to Brand's position – and light is faster than the wings of crows. By the time the birds had arrived, the ball exploded, shredding their black wings and damaging the man of fire even further.

Brand struggled to his knees as Jarvan moved in one final time: now for the kill. The demon needed to think quickly, he had to act: act or die. So he glared with hate, and hate erupted across Jarvan's body – fire being hate's physical form. Distracted by the conflagration occurring all over his body he noticed not the sphere of flame soaring towards his face, and as he looked up the ball erupted, throwing the prince off his feet.

Brand looked to the shadows where Fiddlesticks had been before. He was gone. Brand nodded and took in a deep breath. With all the will he had left the monstrous creature raised a huge wall of flame between him and Lux. The wall cut off the Demacian witch, but left Brand to the mercy of Jarvan. "It's all on you my terrible friend!" Brand cried out to the air, knowing not far from him stitched ears could hear. "Good bye."

With the mighty wall of raging red standing only feet away from them, Jarvan rose and struck Brand's side with his lance. The blow was quick and powerful, and if Brand had lungs it would have knocked the air from them, had he blood it would have outpoured, had he bones they would have broken. Instead fire forced its way from his throat. Instead molten stone leaked from the cracks across his body. Instead his blackened carapace shattered like the shell of egg.

He lay there coughing, his eyes still raging with hate, his body still willing to rise. But it could not, he was broken. Jarvan looked down at him: no longer a monster, for the wounded, the dying, can never be monsters. Pull the legs off a spider, and you shall see how terrifying it is. Shoot a bear in the gut, and it will give you cause to weep, not to scream. This was Brand. Even Jarvan almost pitied the creature: all his power was gone, all his strength gone. He had no more resolve, no more presence, only the pathetic and fading impression of the dying.

Jarvan leant down and looked at him; the legendary foe reached up and grabbed the prince's collar with a weak and momentary grip. "You will see it. The world will end in fire."

Jarvan raised his lance one final time, "Not yours." Then it was over.

As his steel plunged into the hard shell of Brand's body, the fire finally extinguished. Within moments there was no more raging heat – only rising smoke and burnt bones. He looked like a man – perhaps the man he once was, before the creature Brand possessed his body – and at this Jarvan did feel a twang of sorrow. He rose and saluted. He had been a worthy opponent, and though it pained him to say it, he knew there was some value in strength alone.

Jarvan looked on at the wall of fire as it slowly disappeared, and as it did he heard only two sounds: the cawing of crows, and the screaming of a woman. "LUX!" Jarvan leapt through the dissipating flames caring nothing for the pain. She had saved him, he had to save her, but she was nowhere to be found. He could only hear her – her and the crows, and then the laughter, and then the quiet.

"LUX! LUX WHERE ARE YOU?"

I I I

He was the most powerful of them all, the unofficial head of the council, the one they all turned to when things went wrong: Altaarn was their wisdom, Heyan their spirit, and Greyhamon was their force: their bravery and strength. But there he lay, half consumed by a sickness none could cure, one none could even diagnose. Soraka sat at his bed side, her eyes heavy from sleep-loss. She stared down at the old man, a great sadness hanging over her. From the moment he fell ill she had abandoned fighting on the fields of justice. She never left his room. Not for one moment.

"You called for me, Soraka?" Altaarn entered the room a little out of breath. He closed the door quietly, and laid saddened eyes on the sleeping form of his friend.

"He had begun mumbling. More than before. Actual sentences. I could not work out quite what he was saying, but I thought, should it start again, you might." The starchild didn't move her gaze from Greyhamon's form. She dared not even for a second, lest something happen that she could not witness – lest a second die between him and her aid.

"You… you don't have to remain here all this time Soraka I know I've said it before but… if you wish to take a rest, someone will watch him for you." He knew the request was pointless, he had already asked it a hundred times. He did it now more out of politeness than anything else.

"No." She sat almost statuesque: a glowing angel of stone watching an old man die. "I promised I would watch over him. If I do one thing right in my life… it shall be this." She had not been the same since the sickness came. It seemed that with Greyhamon went a part of her.

Altaarn attempted to reach out to his old friend, but little did he know how terribly he would fail. "Soraka, I… I don't know if you know. But we have reason to believe that the void is coming. The world will…"

Her neck turned like clockwork, and for the first time in a thousand years a drop of scorn resided within Soraka's eyes. "The world can burn… but I will be here to stop the flames from touching him." She quickly returned her gaze to Greyhamon, panicking slightly, angry at herself for allowing her eyes to wander off. She sighed. "They can have the world, but they will rue the day they ever tried to get him."

Altaarn nodded, half frightened and half disappointed. He didn't quite understand the situation, and with Greyhamon afflicted by his sickness, and Soraka by hers, perhaps he never would. But this is the way it was, and there was little he could do about it. "When the war comes… I will not ask you to fight. But the… the institute of war may be abandoned."

Soraka was about to speak when suddenly Greyhamon murmured something. It was unintelligible, but it was a sound. She moved forward slightly and took his hand into hers. "Come, louder, speak again. Please. Please speak again." There were tears in her eyes, small diamonds of blue and violet.

"B… Belial. D… Don't free Belial." And then he was asleep again.

"Who is Belial?" asked Soraka, he tears falling onto the bed sheet, her grip whitening Greyhamon's hand.

"I…" Altarrn hung his head. "I don't know." The old summoner sighed, and turned to the door. "I'll do my best to find out what he meant."

As he opened the door he dared not look back, it was all too tragic for him: too tragic and too confusing. Everything that had happened recently was that foul mixture of feelings – it all felt unreal, like a nightmare that wouldn't scare you, a nightmare that only teased the senses: teased them with nausea and amnesia.

So Altaarn stepped forward, adamant that he would think only of the war to come, only of action. He would not see the personal aspect of it all, there would be no revenge or anger, only hope and resolve. Then Soraka ruined it all.

"Altaarn. Make Malzahar pay. Make him pay for what he's done." She paused. "Promise me. Promise me you'll make him pay."

He didn't want to reply, he didn't. But his soul forced him to. "I… I will try."

_Author's note: Again, thank you very much to all who read 'End of Days', I'm going to start trying to update it more regularly from now on. I've gone back over chapters 1 and 2, and made some changes and corrections. It's nothing huge, but if you'd like to read them again I hope you'll find them to be a little bit better._

_Also, I'm going to be posting short stories alongside 'End of Days' whose plots will support the main story (eg. Backstories to relationships, explanations for things, short pieces of history) see 'We Were Relics the Day We Met' and you'll understand what I mean. _

_Thanks again, and you're all awesome. _


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: A Shortage of Beauty**

She was gone. She had saved him and he had failed to save her. There was nothing in the darkened streets, nothing but rubble and smoulder, and no matter how hard Jarvan looked, no matter how carefully he listened, there was no sign of the lady of luminosity – not her and not her captor. With panicked hands and blood-stained gauntlets he lifted and searched every dead body he found. One would be her, he just knew it: that monstrous scarecrow had murdered Luxanna, and Jarvan had let it happen.

Another lift, another grimace; another dead face with lightless eyes, still open, still watching: like mirrors in the black. "LUX?" he cried, "LUX WHERE ARE YOU?" Finally it overwhelmed the prince, it was all too much: the flames, the blackened sky, the stricken city, the missing friend – there like wicked dreams, like ghoulish concepts come to life, they cackled at him, mocking his weak and human form. That powerless prince who could not save his city, that foolish man who could not save his friend, that useless warrior who could not have even saved himself – he fell to his knees, and with a whimper half whispered "Lux..."

His armoured hand lay open on the dusty ground, and though his skin could not feel the rough surface of a scar, his soul could. He felt Demacia wounded: her shining emblem scratched, her iron fist dented, her valorous heart punctured. But there was strength left in her, still a hope, still a force, still resolve to get up again.

'How had it come to this?' he asked himself. How had the entire Demacian home guard fallen so quickly, and to what? How had the entire city been burnt to the ground in one night? The prince didn't understand it, and his rash actions had not yet helped him clarify it any further. So he tried something else, instead he tried to think.

How had the entire city been taken?

How had the entire city been taken?

How had the entire city been taken?

Then the logic stabbed the nightmare, and Jarvan realised: it hadn't.

He stared up at the night sky, there were no stars – no clouds but no stars. In a frantic hurry Jarvan ran back to the courtyard outside the palace, and there he searched for the Demacian horizon. There was none. After a view much more obscured than usual everything diminished into hazy shadow. It felt as if the palace and its surrounding district had been sealed, trapped inside some dome: that night had descended, but just for them.

Jarvan gritted his teeth. "Nocturne."

For the first time in all history there was hope in that beast's name. Now it meant that all of Demacia had not been destroyed, that this was not an all-out battle, they had come for something very specific. But for what? Whatever it was, Jarvan would find out, and he would make safe the rest of the district, and he would destroy that monster Nocturne, and most of all: he would find Luxanna, and he would bring her home – alive.

But at least one of these tasks would not have to be his. For with a shattering crash a black form exploded through a wall of the palace. Trailing dust behind him, Nocturne flew through the air and fell to the floor – the ethereal glow of his eyes weak, the blades of his arms scratched and bent, one broken completely. In his wake came the man who had sent him through the wall: Karson Ironfel, more alive and terrifying than ever.

"Where is everyone?" Karson spat a clod of blood onto the floor and discarded a cleft piece of Nocturne's blade. All across him lay cuts and gouges, slashes that ran deep, grazes that tore skin. His gait gave the slightest hint of a limp, but other than this, Karson gave no hint of suffering: pain is for distributing, not keeping.

"I believe we may be cut off, from the rest of city. The small area around the palace is destroyed, but…" Jarvan's explanation was then cut off.

"Clever prince…" Nocturne's voice was soaked in bitter defeat, but even then it sent a small chill down the demacian's spine. "If only you knew more." Nocturne chuckled to himself.

Jarvan looked the creature over. He was beaten half to death, hardly the monster he once was. He could not feel it: that tremor, that chill, that blade of fear far sharper than those on Nocturne's arms. Perhaps this was it. Perhaps the terror had gone from him. "What are you…"

"No." And 'no' it was, as Jarvan's preconceptions all died. For then it came. Then it came truly. The darkness in the voice, the night within the cadence: then came the utter horror that the creature held within each hissed syllable. Here was Nocturne – even in defeat – here was the unnatural fear he wielded. "What are you? What are you to do when the isolated nightmare you see around you comes true? What will you do prince; what will you do at the end of days?"

Jarvan simply stared at the creature a moment: all the fear and disgust beaming out through his glare. He was not of this world, thought Jarvan, not the physical one at least. Yet, if Nocturne had been a dream come to life, the prince dared not imagine whose dream he had been. For whose mind could hold a ghost so terrible? Only one worse. Whose soul could bear such an awful curse? Only one worse.

Jarvan took a step forward, and smothering every ounce of fear with hatred he asked the creature one thing. "Where is Luxanna?"

Nocturne did not reply.

"One of your _friends _took her. Where has he taken her?"

Still he did not reply.

"Answer me!" Jarvan slammed his lance against the ground, smashing the stone beneath it.

Silence. Silence. Then a hiss. "Zaun."

"What?"

"Zaun wanted her."

Jarvan searched Nocturne's eyes for signs of lying – but what would he find in the demented glowing of dreadful stars? The prince turned to Karson. "We need to remove this shroud." Karson said nothing, he simply pointed his blade towards the creature and grimaced. Jarvan turned back to face Nocturne. "This _is_ your doing isn't it? But how? You've never held something this large for this long. Some other force must be powering you. Tell me what is going on!"

There was a sick joy in the monster's voice then. "No."

"Bring down the shroud."

Again. "No."

Jarvan leaned in, his eyes inches from that of the creature. "Bring it down, or we shall make you bring it down."

Something more unnerving than any speech the monster could have mustered unsettled the prince then: he felt Nocturne smile. He did not know how, and he did not know why, but through that shady featureless face, through that still air and darkened aura, Jarvan felt the beast smiling – grinning at him with invisible lips. "I came into this with no intention of getting out alive." Nocturne paused, revelling in Jarvan's ill ease. "There is something greater at work here than you and me."

The prince hesitated. "What?"

"Fear."

I I I

Heimerdinger watched him, he was acting strange. "What are you doing to the curtain."

"Deciding" replied Ryze.

"Deciding what?"

The blue mage sighed, his eyes lost in the velvet lining. "Whether or not to look."

"At the curtain?"

"At what's behind the curtain."

Heimerdinger was confused, he had never been good with metaphors and their like. Romanticism and symbolism always just confused him, and that made him feel a little bit stupid, and Heimerdinger hated – HATED – feeling stupid. "I…" luckily he would not have to ask Ryze to explain.

"Would you look? This is it Heim, the end of this world, no more Valoran, no more Runeterra: would you look?" There was a sadness in Ryze's eyes, one that unsettled the tiny scientist, one that demanded to be seen and demanded to be felt.

"I'm not sure I entirely understand Ryze."

"Take one last look at the world while it is still perfect and have the pain of having to then look away before it burns, or not look, and hold the pain of knowing you didn't. Would you look Heim, would you?"

The yordle scratched his chin, "I… I don't know."

Ryze gave a sullen smile, one of those smiles you have to make yourself: a forced and discontented one that asks 'Why am I here?' "Me neither. I thought it'd be easy: I'd just look and grin and hold that picture in my head forever, but… I'll have to look away, I don't want to look away, part of me thinks it'd be better to just keep the memories I have and not add to them."

"Maybe. But…" The scientist stopped himself.

"But what?"

"Oh, it's nothing." He had felt embarrassed by his own thought and wanted to shoo it away.

"No, go on. Please."

"It's just… because you now know that soon it will all be gone, because of your new found appreciation and the rarity of the situation, just as a resource that has become incredibly scarce, this view will be worth more now than ever before."

Heimerdinger was unsure whether he was helping, but Ryze's grin determined he was. "A resource that has become scarce? A shortage of views?"

Thrilled by his success, Heimerdinger decided he would feel stupid no longer, and played his own hand at romanticism. "A shortage of beauty, Ryze. A shortage of beauty. All of it will be gone soon, and this is all that is left, so…" he stopped to think "if we assume beauty increases in intensity as it decreases in abundance, this… this view, shall be the most beautiful thing anyone alive has ever had the pleasure of witnessing."

"A shortage of beauty?" Ryze chuckled. Heimerdinger nodded. "Well then, shall we take the last drink of water together?"

"It would be an honour."

So they drew the curtain, and as the blind of sun faded away, and the green hills and black mountains, the blue sky and white clouds, the flowing fields, surging rivers and swaying trees all came to view, they realised something. Even if this was not the most beautiful view of all time, it was at least the most precious, the most fragile, the most clung onto that any being with the power to see ever had to look away from.

I I I

"We kill it." Jarvan had decided. He had had enough of Nocturne's word games and wanted this to be all over. "We kill it, and the shroud will disappear."

But Karson would not agree, "No, we can't, he is a prisoner of war."

The prince turned, utterly bewildered. "What?"

Karson budged not an inch. "He is a prisoner of war."

"He is a monster! You do realise to what creature you are referring to? This is Nocturne, Karson. This is our chance to destroy beast once and for all." And Nocturne watched, without a sound, without a movement, he watched them as they juggled his life and death with their words.

"He is a prisoner of war."

The prince stared at Karson, searching his eyes for an ounce of understanding: but there was none. In this moment he was Demacia in every sense of the word, and he would not kill a helpless foe, he would have mercy, he would have honour. "We force him unconscious and then we imprison him. That is all."

"Are you giving _me _orders?"

Karson shook his head. "I am pointing out what we _must _do. There are no other options."

Jarvan burst, "There is one great option! We kill him! Karson, if the Institute of War cannot hold him, what makes you think we can?"

"We have facilities even you do not know about."

The prince scoffed. "Regardless. How long do you think we will keep him: a hundred years, a thousand? And then what? When we are dead, when our children are dead, when Demacia shines on or crumbles down into the future, what then, when Nocturne still lives, when eventually he is free, and we have failed those who come after, what then?"

But it was almost as if he could not here Jarvan, the words struck and bounced off his armour, falling to the ground and withering. "Then it is then." He paused and stared at the creature a moment, before returning gaze to Jarvan and raising his voice slightly. "But now it is now, and now we are Demacians, and Demacians do not kill helpless creatures. That is what separates _us _from _them_. We have mercy, we have honour. Not all value is in strength, and there is no virtue in killing." He stopped and moved to the beast's side. "He is a prisoner of war." With that, Karson slammed Nocturne's head with the hilt of his sword, causing a large magical spark, a whimpered cry, and an unconscious beast.

The was an awkward silence then.

"I didn't even know the creature could be caused to become unconscious."

Karson half-smiled. "I have studied him and many beasts of the league… very, very carefully."

The sky returned then, and a cheer was heard in the distance. The black turned to blue, the air roamed freely, and the destruction did not seem quite so complete. 'Demacia may have been scarred that day, but it did nothing but prove her indomitability.' Or so Prince Jarvan thought.

"Let us find out what is truly going on then, and where everyone has been."

Jarvan nodded, and he and Karson walked towards the bridge between the royal district and the rest of the city. "I much need to speak with Garen. He will want to know what has happened to his sister."

I I I

The purple eyes glowed within the black: the evil surrounded by the evil. His mind raced with voices; his soul convulsed with energy; he was a conduit: the will of dark gods.

"It has been done," scratched a voice within the shadow.

"He has her?"

"He has her," assured the voice.

"So Cho'Gath distracted the home guard, Nocturne placed his shroud, Shaco descended on the king, and you stole his love."

The voice hesitated. "Brand has been slain… and Nocturne remains behind."

"The burn he has left on that city will not be forgotten, and I will do what I can for Nocturne."

"Yes, what of the plans for Noxus?"

Silence.

"Malzahar?"

Silence.

"You did not mention Shaco's failure."

"I…"

"Bring me the clown. I need to know exactly what happened."

"Of course." He prepared to exit.

"And Fiddlesticks…"

"Yes?"

"Brand will be avenged. When the fighting comes, I shall give the prince to you."

"No Malzahar, you shall give him to the crows."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Gods**

He sat back, relaxed and grinning: right ankle on left knee, cheek on fist, elbow on chair's arm. "There was nothing I could have done about it." He spoke while watching his right hand; by the fingertips he dangled a blade through the air, gently swinging it like a pendulum. "I set up a mouse trap, and I caught a rat instead." He chuckled.

"Rather, it caught you."

He laughed loudly then, gripping the hilt of his dagger hard. "I love irony, don't you?"

"How could he have known you were coming for them?" Malzahar spoke rhetorically then, but Shaco replied nonetheless.

"Rat senses?" he stared off into the shadow at his right. "Do rats have rat senses? Or is that spiders?"

Malzahar sighed heavily. "Shaco."

"Spiders, yes, spiders have rat senses, that's the one." He nodded to himself and then stared back into the purple eyes before him. "Yes?"

"Please concentrate."

"But why? Concentrating is so boring! Can't we just go out and murder some more!"

He sighed again. "In order to murder _more_ you would have had to of murdered previously, and as we know that did not go quite to plan. Did it?"

Shaco giggled childishly. "No, not entirely. You should have seen the looks on their faces though!" He clutched himself as he began cackling. "The shock-horror followed by the frustration. Oh Xin Zhao's expression as I got away: priceless!"

"Shock-horror and frustration does not kill kings."

"I don't know… Jarvan is getting on a bit. Maybe next time I'll just shout BOO and he'll keel over." Shaco descended into a fit of laughter then, becoming absolutely insufferable.

But Malzahar did not shout at him, he did not strike his fist against stone and thunder control upon the fool: in fact he said nothing. The glow of his malignant eyes disappeared from the room, and Shaco was left alone, writhing blissfully in the sounds of his own madness.

As the wicked prophet faded from the physical realm and into a void which touched the one he wished to dwell within, he saw. A thousand futures span their threads of time through and through his mind, each strand cutting deep, each cut bleeding fate. He saw the outcomes of a thousand-thousand battles, the plans of a hundred-hundred minds, the words of tens and tens of voices, but in all of it stood but one defying figure. In all the victorious universes, in all the many worlds where the void had consumed all, Malzahar could make out one frame where he had been defeated. But still he could not see why.

"There will be no next time Shaco. The damage we have done to Demacia is sufficient, and soon their yearning for war will be too strong to resist: when they see what Zuan have done: when Garen finds his sister: when Jarvan sees truly how utterly he failed her." He grinned a smile of the soul; his twisted and malformed heart racing as his tainted mind urged it ever on. "And when they all stand weak, Noxus shall press their advantage. So they will fight. As the void comes for them, they shall fight: without even chance to protect themselves."

His form materialised, now far from where it had once been. In the halls of some great mansion, within the bowls of some mighty mountain, Malzahar floated air-on-marble-floor through the home of another. "And now we persuade the fickle to fight for the sake of fighting."

I I I

Garen brought his fist down hard upon the wooden table. "This is ridiculous! What do you mean we cannot retaliate?"

King Jarvan stared compassionately at his most loyal soldier. Garen's aggressive expression was peppered by weak hints of despair, his angry eyes deceived by an undertone of worry that hid within the iris. "We do not retaliate, because we have no one to retaliate against. Please Garen, see reason, Twitch has explained as much as he can to us, we must attend this summit at the Institute of War."

But the situation seemed to lack entirely of reason, and if there were any, Garen surely was blind to its existence. "Sire, my liege… do not have me believe you trust this rat: these ramblings about the void and Malzahar, about the idiotic mage Ryze! Surely this is all some great deceit." He turned then, standing with his back towards his king. More a courtesy than a rule, but nevertheless King Jarvan had never witnessed Garen do this once before. "Zuan… Zuan and its wicked scientists and mad professors, look what they have done! The beast has told us so! They freed those monstrosities and lay waste to the palace, and…" He gritted his teeth then, the might of his stern soul not permitting the weakness of crying. "They took Luxanna. They took my sister and heaven knows what they plan to do with her." He turned to face King Jarvan once again with a final plea. "Please sire, if there was ever a time for rash actions it is now."

But the king would see none of it. "We attend the summit, Garen. That is all." The King gestured towards Twitch then, who was standing in the corner of the hall fiddling with an arrow. "This _rat_ saved my life; I have no reason not to trust him. Furthermore, why on earth would Zuan attack us? What quarrel have we caused of late?"

"Father." Jarvan the fourth stepped forward then, not sure what side to take. "Perhaps Garen is right. If this was all a deceit…"

"No. We leave for the summit in the morning." The king rose, his frailty never more apparent. "Karson, pack my son's things. Garen, you will be staying behind."

With this 'the might of Demacia' stormed out of the hall, only to stop halfway down a small corridor and lean silently with rage, aiming all hate at the wall before his eyes. He could not believe this was truly happening: that his sister was gone, that the king would not want vengeance, that anyone would believe the wild claims of an abomination such as Twitch. It was all too ridiculous for the man who was steel to handle, and so, with a single crack through his metal soul, Garen began to weep.

Then a hand, then a voice, then a friendly face: "We will find her Garen. I will find her. I promise."

He did not turn. "No Jarvan, you cannot promise that."

There was a sombre moment then – one that lasted all too long, that died and festered and became the awkward standing of a funeral. "You… You are not the only man who cared about her, you know?"

But as much as Jarvan hoped this would remedy the sorrow, it only made it worse: turning it bitter and angry. "Do not speak of her as if she is dead" he said, turning to Jarvan, a poison birthing within his eyes. Garen began to walk away then, and as he did, he spoke words intended to wound: and wound they did. "Do not think that none know of you and her." He paused. "The pain of knowing she is gone is only matched by the pain that she loved a man as weak as you, that you could not save her. But I will; oh know this, Jarvan, I will. No matter what it takes, I will save her."

I I I

Ryze drummed his fingers upon the table: the rhythm helped him think. "Do not free Belial?"Altaarn nodded. "Belial?" He nodded again. Ryze shook his head and continued to drum.

Silence lingered within the corners of the room, stalking like a predator within the shadows, waiting, just waiting for the death of words – the lowering of the swords of sound. Over and over again it pounced upon the three men, taking hold of the atmosphere: asphyxiating their minds, and each time becoming harder to speak away.

The slow relentlessness of the situation caused it to feel eternal: that the thoughts would never come, this mystery would never be solved; they would have to go on, leaving all this to the rags of time. Who was Belial? They would never know.

And then Ryze defied the gods.

He stared wide-eyed at Altaarn, those ivory orbs brimming with pride and excitement. "That creature, the one you have imprisoned, from the middle lane, what was its name?"

The arch summoner bowed his head. His rising soul – thrilled by the energy it felt in Ryze's eyes – was left disappointed and depressed. "It had no name."

"_Had,_ Altaarn, _had_."

I I I

They descended the darkened staircase, silence still watching their every step, waiting hopefully for their endeavour to fail. Slowly the glow of magical bars intensified, and the distant soon became the close. Two tiny yellow eyes beamed up at them, they felt silence's presence, and they disdained it. "Summoner, Ryze, Heimerdinger, why have you come?"

Ryze stepped forward, not allowing Altaarn to speak. "Belial?"

The creature stared a moment, his gaze either fear or bewilderment; Ryze could not tell. He hung his head then, the glow of his sunlight eyes disappearing and leaving the trio's faces all the darker. "I… That is not who I am. Please…" He paused, accepting silence as his lord and saviour. "Leave me, just leave me here and don't come back."

Altaarn was more than confused: he was perplexed, unknowing, his mind struggling even to comprehend the circumstances. "So you know that name? That _is_ your name?"

The tiny mutant sighed, "No. That is what the voice said I would become. Belial: destroyer of fate, ruiner of all." But I am powerless, imprisoned by those who are supposed to be the good in this world, beckoned only by the wicked, foretold to be some great terror." He paused again, wishing only nothingness. "I must be despicable if I am held here, and if the voice be right, I stand only to get worse." He looked up at them once more, the shining spheres that were his eyes beaming sorrow, beaming dread. "I am not yet Belial, and I wish never to be."

Altaarn turned from the cage without even a facial response. 'How did Grayhamon know of this? He was not awake for this creature's birth, was completely ignorant of the void's coming. How did he know more than they did: that this being was some terrible force to keep locked away? And was it? Was it?' The old man rubbed his brow. He felt the weight of everything at once: all the fear, all the anxiety, all the anger; it bared down on him like weapons of siege, like coming armies, stomping boots, mud and mortars.

"What do you think this means?" asked Heimerdinger, still staring at the creature, inspecting every inch of it.

"That we keep this creature locked away. That's what." Ryze's response was expected. The mage was still revelling in the belief that against all odds he was right, and Ryze was never at his wisest when ego overplayed reason.

Then that monster took its moment. The opportunity was presented and without a second's hesitation silence struck, his sword in hand, its poison dripping blade to ground. And he ruled, for endless moments he ruled: Silence, the king of this dark domain. But all kings die eventually.

"How did he know?"

Ryze turned to Altaarn, confused. "What do you mean?"

"How did Greyhamon know about Belial?" Still the old man would not make eye contact with any being in the room. He stared into the abyss: the shadow that seemed to stretch forever into a realm no vision could grasp; for within its endlessness he found a small comfort, a knowledge of something infinitely finite: forever dark, but only within those few metres.

"What does it matter?" Ryze grinned. "He was right. I was right about him being right. Belial must not be freed."

Then it shouted. "I AM NOT BELIAL!" The creature glared all hate at Ryze, and as it did the magical bars trembled, some force emitting from the very essence of the mutant's gaze.

"Yes, I'm sorry. We cannot let him become Belial: he must not be freed." The blue mage nodded, and Heimerdinger followed suit, finally finished with his analysis of the creature.

Silence, raised form the dead, returned for a brief reign of terror. But soon, like a plague, was purged. "But how did he know?"

"What does it matter?"

Altaarn stared Ryze down then, his emerald eyes penetrating those snowy spheres with conviction and wrath. "Of course it matters! What has gotten over you? Look at the situation we are in for one moment if you would! Greyhamon knew without even being awake: what told him?"

Ryze bowed his head sheepishly, and Heimerdinger fidgeted his feet: they both knew there was wisdom in Altaarn's words, but as to some conclusion, they had no inkling in the slightest. "I… I don't know Altaarn, perhaps he had some vision or… perhaps he was watching all along… somehow. The fact is that he was right."

"Yes. And the fact is we don't know how." The old man returned to watching the black. "What if the sickness told him so?"

Heimerdinger looked up from his feet. "What?"

"If this plague of the mind was put on him by some devil, by Malzahar even, what if – what if this is all deceit?"

Ryze scratched his head. "But the voice, the voice of the void told him. He would become a great destroyer, and what more could they want than a destroyer."

Altaarn sighed once more, "I suppose you're right perhaps. But all of this, it tastes unlike it should. There is no wickedness here." He looked to the puny and vulnerable form that would be Belial. "Only innocence and heartfelt fear: just a child commanded by a phantom, caged by a fool, and birthed by a mother who has left it with her foes." He wiped a single tear from his right eye. "I am so sorry, little one."

Altaarn ascended the stairs then, hoping not to hear any response from the creature of the middle lane. But even as he reached halfway, the tiny echo of its tiny voice treaded timidly into his ear. "Do not be sorry great Altaarn. 'Tis not you who is a monster… by form and by fate."

I I I

"DU COUTEAU!" His voice bellowed like winds born in the mountains. "MARCUS, WHERE ARE YOU?" It had been suspected for many many years that the assassination of General Darkwill had been personally performed by Marcus Du Couteau himself, and that his disappearance shortly after had been merely an extension of his plan. Perhaps Du Couteau waited for all the arguing and fighting to weaken the other generals, only so that he may return and claim the position of High Commander himself. Some rumoured that he vanished in order to find some secret power, or lost relic, some hidden thing that would grant him the force to rule over all Noxus forever. But whatever the true reason was, the outcome – the truth of the present – was the same: General Du Couteau ruled over Noxus with a fearful iron fist.

He roared again and again, adding each time to the crowd which had already formed before him. Malzahar floated above a grand congregation of Noxion dignitaries and officers, all anticipant to what might happen. That purple mage – that seemingly fragile figure who seemed so out of place – was elevated unabashedly above those men of war and strength, he knew himself better, regardless of what they might have thought. He was the herald of end, and end is infinitely greater than middle.

Eventually he arrived: that legendary figure, triangled by man, woman and monster. At one side of him stood Katarina, glaring fury at the purple mage, the other side was guarded by Talon, the only man alive whose undying loyalty stood at Du Couteau's flank, and behind him there dwelled a beast: two glowing green eyes within a shadowy hood.

"What do you want… Malzahar?" There was an unnatural amount of disdain behind that name. Du Couteau knew things, things the prophet expected him to be ignorant towards.

"I come here to inform you that both Demacia and Zuan will be vulnerable soon. Consumed by a war of their own making, they will not expect to be taken by a force strong and sure of itself: if there was ever a time to strike, it would be now."

Du Couteau flicked the ash of his cigar to the floor and chuckled, this mage did not scare him. "Is this so?"

Malzahar grinned: he had won. "Indeed, Noxus' time is at hand, General."

Then, after a moment of silence – a moment of providence held by that awful demon – Du Couteau destroyed everything Malzahar hoped to be true. "We know of the truth, Malzahar."

The purple prophet froze. "What?"

"Word has come to us," began the general, nudging his daughter Katarina with his elbow. "That you hold a wish beyond mortal man…" he paused preparing his tone for utter hatred, "herald of _the void_."

Malzahar waited a moment before reply, hoping the General meant something other than what the mage feared. "What do you mean?" he asked with greatly faked sincerity.

"You do this to aid your own ends…" He took one long drag of his cigar and then spoke as he exhaled death. " and not ours, servant of the void."

Then he knew: then it struck him like spear on shield, they had been told of his plan, by someone, by somehow. "You know." he began, his tone filled with rage, his tone filled with wondering. "How do you know?"

Du Couteau laughed: smoke spilling from his throat in bursts of dark air. "We have been informed, an emissary of The League came to us, regaling what they believed to be your plan." He then sat down in a chair brought to him by some common soldier. "I do not know what mind at The League figured out your devilish scheme, but whomever it was, I, we, are grateful."

Malzahar stopped, it was falling apart, just as he had foretold to Mordekaiser: these mortals were finding some way to halt fate. 'How did they know? Who had figured this all out?' These were all questions for another time; now was for action, action and speech: now was for convincing Noxus, no matter what.

"So you know…" the mad prophet began. "You know of what comes for this wretched world… very well." He glared down at Du Couteau, not an ounce of fear or even respect in his stare. "Fine: I will give this ultimatum instead. Join here the terror that encroaches on this awful earth, rather than the futility that defends it." The crowd reeled in shock. "Become, as I, a creature of the void, and fight for what will remain, as opposed to what will die." He watched The General's eyes then, hoping for a momentary sign of weakness: for that is all it would take.

The crowd descended into shouting: all called out Malzahar, some for worship, some for hatred. But the General himself was drowned out. The mad prophet waited, waited for some distinct intonation to grasp his attention, but moments passed and nothing came. So the purple clad mage slowly lost interest, and was soon in a moment of despair and disappointment ready to leave Noxus. Yet it was then, when confrontation and indecision had declared rule over all, that one defined and unyielding ideal stood against the very principle of 'The Prophet of the Void.'

Cassiopeia, a glare heavy laden with venom, slithered out of the crowd. She watched Malzahar, ignoring the commotion behind her: the bewildered cries of the congregation, her father calling her name. There she stood mere metres from him. "How dare you?" Silence. Awe. "How dare you come to my home and threaten my people like this?" All listened as she confronted the mad wizard, pure contempt swimming through her tone. For the guilt and the terror of a hundred thousand deaths lay fermented within her blackened soul, but even to her, _he_ was despicable. He offered the end of the world, he lead it even, as if he were a god, as if he heralded all magic itself. "You make me sick. Standing there, surrounded by your serene insanity, believing you are superior to who dwell upon this earth. Many soldiers and servants… princesses have believed they were untouchable: their position superlative. But all of them – every single one – have been proven mistaken." She presented her twisted form to him, throwing off her cloak. "Gods of deceit or disloyalty have left me scarred past any mortal restoration." She looked down at her hands, a deep slice of sorrow scratching at old wounds within the soul. "No magic of yours or mine can change this, just as you cannot change the world." She paused. "_You_ a mortal prophet, will bring the fall of all Runeterra? There are supremacies within this soil superior to any who stand here, superior to even you! They shield this world; they will not simply let it succumb!" She grinned then, revelling in what she believed was her victory. "Old gods watch over this world."

Malzahar did not smile, he did not grimace and he did not scoff. He simply – watching with eyes so cold they betrayed the luminosity of their glow – raised his arm and unleashed. A beam of energy so intense that it blinded all who dared glance at it took form from the end of his fingertips, and before any could even blink, it had engulfed Cassiopeia. A clash of sound, a plume of dust, a burst of light – it all came with speed and force, and only when it had begun to settle did Malzahar slowly turn around.

There, lying upon the ground, breathing heavily and drenched in sweat, was Cassiopeia. Unscathed she lay there, her eyes lifting gradually from the ground to the purple clad conjurer who had begun all of this. So as the crowd reeled in shock, as Cassiopeia clutched her own body, as everyone frantically switched views between the floating mage and the beautiful naked girl lying upon the ground, Malzahar uttered on phrase. "I am the gods now."

And then he was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Memories and Nightmares**

_He watched her, her eyes searching the darkness for a sign. He knew what she was about to say. "I'm going in there."_

_Garen shook his head, "No, we need you out here. We must trust in the palace guard, in Jarvan and Xin Zhao." A soldier approached Garen from the rear, limping, desperately needing his attention. "None of us can go in there." Garen turned, the soldier handed him a note. "Send two more units to protect that gate. Whatever tiny monstrosities Cho'Gath has lead into Demacia, we cannot let them into the buildings."_

"_Brother!" shouted Luxanna, forcing his gaze back onto her. "I __can__ go in there. You know I __can__, with my magic I'll be able to get through the shroud. Please Garen, I need to…"_

"_To what?" he snapped. The young woman bowed her head, she knew she was acting out of line, but she would not submit: not to this, not for that. _

"_No!" She stamped her foot and gripped hard her baton. "I'm going in. What if they're in trouble, what if they need me?"_

_Garen sighed, and with half disappointed – half angry eyes he watched his sister move forward into the wall of shadow. "You don't mean __they__."_

I I I

Garen awoke, sweat on his neck, tears in his eyes. The jolt of life had felt like a harsh blow, as if reality had struck him across the forehead: punishing him awake. The dream was memory, and though it was not a particularly happy one, it was still a memory, a fragmented piece of him and his sister – a moment that would never happen again, nor be replicated, nor reminisced: at least not with her. All that was left now was the cruelty of being awake, and the worry that ran thicker than blood through his veins.

He turned to his bedside table, and as the picture came into sight he sighed. She was beautiful, effortlessly beautiful, with that humble air of not knowing how precious she was. "Lux," He gripped the wooden frame and stroked her captured form with one finger. "I _will_ find you."

Night had taken hold many hours ago, and was calmly settled into the peak of its reign over the sky. The palace murmured quietly as some slept and some did not, but all was hush, all was calm thought and blissful relief. Except for Garen, who hurriedly stepped through the halls of the palace, encroaching through the dark towards the dungeon, running scripts of conversation through his mind. That beast would tell him where she was, and then, come suffering and death, he would find her. He would die to find her; he would kill to find her; he would tear the very sun from the sky and plunge it into the sea, just to find her, to sit with her, to stroke her golden hair and tell her "it's all going to be fine, little sister, it's all going to be all right."

I I I

"_I'm sorry, Ezreal," he said, his voice weak and broken, his eyes quivering and misty – all an inch away from crying. So he looked away, the rest of his body slowly following suit. _

_But Ezreal refused: against all the gods and all their intentions, he refused. "No, you can't leave! You just can't! Not like this! You have to explain."_

"_I…" Brae bowed his head and exhaled, his breath refusing to become words. "I just have to." He turned completely then, keeping in his heart what he thought was the last image he'd ever record of his beloved Ezreal. It was over, he would leave. _

"_No!" Again, Ezreal refused: though his words could not stay Brae's leg, he knew something else could. From forth the amulet in his gauntlet, Ezreal clung to Brae's ankle with an ethereal chain. "You're not going!"_

_He tried to force the chain: it wouldn't give. He was stuck. But Brae could not turn around, to do so would be to look upon him one more time, and he didn't know if he was capable of such masochism. "Ezreal…"_

"_No!"_

"_Ezreal! If you have any respect for me what-so-ever you will let me go right now!" His leg was set free. But his ears were ensnared. Through the solemn air that hung sadly all around them floated the harrowing ghosts of Ezreal's tears: the whimpering sounds of his despair trundled towards Brae, making their way towards his soul – and there they settled._

"_Please… please don't leave me." He could barely speak for crying. "Not you. Please, not you."_

_Brae turned, first with closed eyes, but inevitably he opened them – and was doomed by it. He could not leave now – with those tears in his boy's eyes, with that crippled sincerity in his tone – he couldn't possibly leave now. "I… I just can't do it, Ezreal."_

_He wiped his eyes: at least Brae was looking at him. "Do… Do what?"_

_But now it seemed it was his turn to cry. "Every day… Every day I worry that you'll not come back. That you'll slip, or react too slow, or face something too powerful, and then days later someone will tell me: 'Oh have you heard? Ezreal has died. How sad.' Every day Ezreal! Every three day expedition, every afternoon or night spent in some dungeon or ruins – I'm sat here scared to sleep, lest I wake up into a world that doesn't include you!" He slumped to the floor then, leaning his back against the door which only a few moments ago was his escape. "I can't do it Ezreal, I just can't."_

_It was all dying before him: his love, his life, his every chance at happiness. Everything was falling to the ground in a pathetic display of futility and foregone conclusions: a tiny sandcastle bowing to the tide, a summer rose meeting autumn's deathly kiss. So in that moment he did it. For love he did it. His heart, brandishing a blade of flame, cleft his ambition in two, and as it watched it fall to the ground, that beating muscle sighed. "I'll stop."_

"_What?" Brae raised his head, bewilderment in his expression._

"_I'll stop. For you I'll stop. No more exploring, no more discovery, no more, I'll just stop. It'll be just me and you and our lives." He took a deep breath. "Just please, promise me you won't leave. Please."_

_He stood, he smiled, he cried and he kissed him. Not for a single moment had he expected this – not even for a fleeting dream. So he just held him, he held him so tight that even if had he been a dream he would not have escaped. _

"_I love you, Brae."_

"_I love you too."_

"_Like you couldn't imagine."_

_He grinned. "I'm pretty sure I have a good idea of it now." He stalled, suddenly feeling terribly guilty. "I just wish there was something I could do for you."_

"_Paint me something."_

"_Ok."_

I I I

Ezreal's eyes opened slowly, like two rusty shutters being pulled by lazy hands. The dream hadn't woken him, no sound or movement had stirred his sleep. It was just so, his eyes had opened and night was gone, and it felt good to be awake. The breathing pillow beneath his ear radiated warmth as it slowly moved up and down, it, still captured by the lulling calm of dreams. Ezreal shifted his head slightly and looked up at the head connected to the chest where his cheeks lay. Brae was still sleeping, his mind swimming through worlds Ezreal would never touch. But he hoped that in some way he was there with him, wherever he was.

The young man scratched his head through his golden hair and sighed. He could not decide whether it was worth trying to get back to sleep, or whether he should rise and risk waking Brae. He didn't want to disturb him, but he didn't particularly want to lie there doing nothing for hours on end as Brae burned the day away. He had done it all too many times before. They had very different attitudes towards sleeping. One cherished and rationed, the other horded and gorged. But so are soldiers and artists.

So Ezreal bit the bullet and beat not around the bush, instead he set the bush on fire. "Brae…" he whispered prodding the raven haired boy in the face. "Brae… wake up Brae." He poked again, this time harder. "Brae?" Now he pinched his nose and held. Brae awoke with a monumental gasp, as one would after spending far too long in a deep pool of water. He looked down at Ezreal who had shrunk back down onto his chest, attempting to look as innocent as possible. He was not pleased.

"You bastard." He sat up and stretched his back, flinging Ezreal across the bed. "I was sleeping."

"That was kind of the point," replied Ezreal through quiet laughter.

"Well yeah, but still. It wasn't nice. I was having a good dream." He smiled, that soft smile which seemed to embrace whoever it was aimed at, sharing some of its joy.

Ezreal smiled back at him, "Was I in it?"

"You might have been. Now get off my legs I need to get dressed." He tried to kick Ezreal away as soft as he could.

"You don't neeeed to get dressed" said Ezreal, smiling a different smile.

"I do, I want to make breakfast and it'll be cold in the kitchen."

"Fine." Ezreal pouted and slowly rolled away. "What did you dream about anyway?"

"I don't really remember. I just know it was nice" He shrugged and began to pull on a shirt. "You know how it is? Do you ever remember your dreams?"

Ezreal trundled towards the wardrobe, "Only when they're of something that has happened. You know, like a memory dream?"

Brae snuck up behind him and wrapped him arms around his waist. "Oh, so what were you remembering?"

Ezreal struggled a little in surprise. "Nothing, I didn't say I dreamt like that tonight."

"No," replied Brae, sqeezing only harder. "You didn't _say_, but I know you, you don't need to _say_."

"It was nothing really, just a conversation we had."

Brae craned his head around Ezreals neck so that he could look him in the eyes. "A good conversation."

Ezreal smiled, "A great conversation."

I I I

Nocturne stroked his broken blade as if it was a broken bone, his wicked eyes sunken, almost saddened. He felt nearly at home within his cell, but not quite. As if someone had replicated comfort: a home where everything was the same, but only made of plastic – all covered in cellophane.

Slowly they came, those footsteps, one after another towards his cell. As they did his eyes weakened, allowing the shadow to engulf them, all the way until they came to an unnatural close – a beastly eclipse. Garen stopped at the bars of the cell; those enchanted steel columns connected to the rest of Nocturne's inescapable cage. He peered inside: darkness there, and nothing more.

Then those two blinding lights revealed themselves mere inches from the Demacian's face, a wicked hiss in their wake. "Yes…?"

Garen sneered, but did not jump; there was too much anger in him for there to be fear. "Listen… beast."

But Nocturne would have his say as well. "If you wish to speak to me you will not refer to me as beast, or monster, or creature."

Garen grimaced. "Listen then, _Nocturne_, and listen well. I am going to ask you a very simple question, and you are going to give me a very simple answer. Are we clear?"

"Clear as shadow."

"Where is Lux?" Garen waited for a reply. None came. "Answer me!"

The silence persisted; on through the darkness it held the air still. Then a voice made it shudder. "Zaun."

Garen gritted his teeth. "Where in Zaun?"

He waited.

Nothing came.

He waited still.

"With father."

These words shook Garen's rage, they caused it to stumble and reach out for aid. There was a hate, a fear and a hate in that word: father. An utter disdain and total terror the man had never heard in any tone. "Who?"

The eyes faded then, and all there was, was blackness. The air stood still, time gave way, and all seemed to be an eternal ending. "Who, Nocturne? Who is _father_?"

But the monster who wished not to be called a monster did not respond, and Garen did not push it further. Instead he backed away. For now his rage was broken completely. All that remained were the shattered shards of fear and doubt. And who would not be scared now? Who would not tremble? When in that tone, in that reply, in that air, you could feel that Nocturne was afraid.

I I I

_The pain was unbearable. Her skin stretched, his bones forced, her body convulsed. All there was was blood and screaming. She hurt and all around her hurt: as her skin tore she tore the skin of others – as she screamed she caused others to scream. Yet, through all the blood and blindness she felt one thing that was not pain: the opening of a door, the entering of a sister, the crying of a caring voice._

"_CASSIOPEIA!"_

I I I

The curtains were opened softly, and as her eyes accepted the light she felt a hand stroke her hair. "Good morning sister, how are you feeling?"

Cassiopeia looked up at Katarina who was smiling lovingly at her. "I…" she rubbed her brow, "I'm aching all over, but apart from that… I think I'm fine." She sat up.

Katarina's stare was remarkable. For the first time in a long time there was nothing but love. All the hate, and all the fury, all coldblooded instinct was gone, and it had been replaced with care and wonder. She just smiled and stared, revelling in Cassiopeia's eyes, taking in her face for the first time in years.

"What is it?"

"It's just," replied Katarina. "I had forgotten how beautiful you were."

Cassiopeia blushed and punched Katarina softly in the arm. "Don't flatter."

"I'm not." She sighed. "You must be over the moon, now you have the beauty and the strength. You're the perfect daughter."

"What do you mean?" Cassiopeia was confused; she thought this would have meant the end of her fighting days.

"We had Urgson look you over while you were sleeping. You still retain all of your magical abilities." There was no jealousy in Katarina, only a hint of disappointment, and not in her sister, only in herself. That her scarred face could never match to the perfect picture that was Cassiopeia.

"Really? That's amazing."

Katarina shook her head, "What was amazing was the way you put Malzahar in his place. Well, before he then put you in _your_ place." They both laughed, and for a moment they were children again.

The moment soon ended.

General Du Couteau stepped through the door, cigar in his mouth and sword at his side. "How is my daughter?"

"Fine father."

"Good. Then get dressed, we're leaving. There is a summit being held at The Institute of War, I want you girls at my side." Then he strode out.

"We're going to war, aren't we?" asked Cassiopeia.

"It looks like it."

"I've never fought in a real battle before."

Katarina smiled and held her sister's hand. "You'll be fine. Your eyes alone could kill a hundred men." Her smile intensified. "And knowing you, it probably already has." They laughed again, and the grave reality that surrounded them once more dissipated.

I I I

With Garen gone it was just Nocturne: the shadow monster and the shadow that was not his. He floated there, suspended above ground – stasis in darkness – and thought. Why had Garen needed to remind him of all that madness: of his birth place, of his machination, of his _father_?

If Nocturne concentrated as hard as he could, he could remember existing before he was born: floating through thoughts as a dream. Those days were not so bad, before he knew what madness meant. For when you don't know what something means it might as well mean nothing. So there was no madness then – no fear and no monsters.

The beast sighed, he thought of all that had happened and all that was yet to come, and he asked himself. "What will _you _do Nocturne? What will _you_ do at end of days?"

I I I

"You have a letter." Brae handed Ezreal the already opened envelope.

"Thank you for caring so much about my privacy." He glared a false glare at Brae, and Brae just smiled.

"Love knows no privacy." He kissed him on the cheek and left the room. "I didn't read all of it." He called form behind the door. "Some boring Institute thing."

"This came yesterday! Why didn't… Oh what's the point?" He took out the letter and began to read. "Your presence is requested at an important… it is extremely important that you… the fate of Runeterra… war of… void… with kind regards, arch summoner Altaarn."

He dropped the letter; he didn't want it touching him any longer. Ezreal stared wide-eyed at the terrible piece of paper that now lay on the ground, damning everything he had worked so hard to maintain. Waves of disbelief washed over him, crashing into froths of doubt and surges of fear. This could not be happening. War? Actual war? No. Not now. Not after all of this. Not after Brae: not after someone worth safety.

Finally he slumped to the ground, the only word he could muster being "no."

I I I

Garen sat upon the softness of his bed. He had waited out the rest of the night there, patiently watching as morning came. All he had to do now is to wait. Wait for the king and his royal guard to leave for the summit, and he would demand a court mage to teleport him to Zaun. With the king and Jarvan gone, he held one of the highest authorities in Demacia.

So it was. He would go to Zaun, and somehow, someway, he would find this _father_ of Nocturne, and he would find Lux, and he would save her. That is how it would be, and nothing, nothing in all of Runeterra would stop it. He would find her, and she would be safe.

"Come death and suffering, I will find you Luxanna. I promise you that."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Fathers**

An uncomfortable air hung throughout the room. It was an air that felt as if did not belong, an invisible ghost meant to be breathed in, but wanted by none. It did not convulse with the sound of raised voices, it did not tremble with the crashing blades of battle, it did not blow with the beauty of the wind or the bellow of a song. No, it did nothing but sit. Like half dried concrete it stood unmoving and unseen throughout the room, slowly poisoned by ill intentions, worry and smoke.

The grand oak table felt not the beating of angry fists, nor the drumming of impatient fingers, but only the stare of awkward eyes – the glances that lived for a moment upon the face of another and died upon the varnished wood. The filled silver glasses sighed in disappointment, their wine and their rims going untouched and unneeded. The candles and the fire place winced in perpetual flinch, forever waiting and forever seeing the inevitable break, the unavoidable first utterance, that sentence that would set them all on a course down Phlegethon.

There they were. Enemies – hated enemies – staring each other down, fighting battles with silent messages, their stomachs and their spines shuddering with loathing and lethargy: the fatigue that came only from fear.

General Du Couteau sat with his two daughters, his gaze surveying the room, but never touching the king of Demacia who sat opposite him. He could not look at that silver trio who he hated so. But it was not because of anger. Du Couteau was afraid, he was afraid of being afraid, of showing the enemy that he had the capacity to ever feel afraid. For there, with that old man and his foolish son, sat the only man in all existence who ever set the flame of fear alight in Marcus' heart.

Karson Ironfel. Of all the men in all the world; of all the beasts and all the spirits; of all the mages, all the summoners, all the warriors and all the monsters that roared, whined, wailed or cackled, Du Couteau gave not an inch of mind to them. But Karson. Marcus would cross blades with any man, would face the spells of any sorcerer, but he would not fight Karson Ironfel, not even in a battle of glares.

Besides the men of Demacia sat the dignitaries from Ionia. Irelia, Master Yi and the more than ancient Shao Ki. All three of them sat with absolute stillness, a statuesque stoicism held only by the Ionians. Their eyes all stared forward, impassive and emotionless, only discipline, only patience, only the will to wait and the strength not question why.

To the general's far left were the representatives of Freljord. King Tryndamere and Ashe, his queen, the bear king Volibear standing ever watchfully behind them. The mayor of Bandle city and his two advisors sat not far away, a collection of scientists from Zaun, Caitlyn of Piltover, and even a representative from Bilgewater, too joined the congregation.

Yet, there was no official of the league, Altaarn was nowhere to be seen, and still Ryze and Heimerdinger refused to show their faces. So the air was left to feel sick, and the men and women of different nations left to breath in the nausea.

I I I

Malzahar floated in the black, silently discontented. His mind raced with anticipation and anger, even though the game lay in his favour, he knew all too well that a stray pawn can bring back a queen.

Two green eyes opened within the darkness. "What is wrong?"

"I know who has done this. I know what fool has set the world against the void, who has informed them, warned them, and now, will unite them." Malzahar flung his arms to his sides and beckoned light into the room for the first time in weeks. The flames upon the walls ignited, and there, in that grand and abandoned place, Malzahar stood solitary for a moment. Just a man within the light, just a form clad in purple, unhidden, unmasked, clear for all, but none, to see.

The green eyes formed once more. "Who?"

Malzahar sighed. "Ryze." The purple mage sat down. "Only he could have felt this without knowledge. He has a connection with magic."

"He is made of magic, Malzahar. Of course he felt the coming of the void. But what difference will it make. We will crush him and we will crush all the others."

"You are proud Cho'Gath, I think perhaps too proud."

The beast laughed and whatever magical transmission giving the two means to talk ended. Now Malzahar was truly alone. Just him: no monsters, no madness, no murmurs: just him.

Then a door somewhere far away was flung open. Malzahar's eyes widened as a stranger entered the threshold, his jaw lowering in confusion and joy, his form fading as he moved to meet whomever dared to find this place.

In an instant the chemist known as Singed stopped in his tracks – a man of brown and purple materialising before him. Malzahar stared down at the trespasser whose audacious eyes held no hint of fear, and those two eyes stared back. There was silence between the two men for longer than felt natural, a kind of evaluation taking place, a judgement of soul. Malzahar gazed down at Singed and in his mind he saw a heart and a feather.

The prophet eventually spoke. "Well?"

"I…" Then, suddenly, Singed became far less imposing. It seemed that he remembered his intentions, and in his tone – in that undercurrent of emotion that flows beneath sound – Malzahar could feel the timidity and the uncertainty that followed in the wake of his words. "I have come with a request… and a proposition."

Malzahar teleported them into his main hall and with an outstretched hand that commanded the wind offered Singed a glass of wine born of the air. "Go on."

Singed looked about his surroundings with surprise, unsure exactly as to how he got there and what he was now drinking. "I… I was there when you revealed your power to Noxus. When you…"

"Removed the gods from Cassiopeia"

Singed bowed his head slightly. "Yes." He took another drink from his glass and then took a deep breath. "Could you do that again?"

Malzahar suddenly became intrigued. "Explain."

"I… Long ago, I was stolen from. A selfish and self-righteous fool brought down powers that she did not possess upon a friend of mine. My greatest ally, my teacher, my friend… was taken from me and from the nation that in battle needed him desperately. Now he belongs to madness, to insanity and hunger and a deafness that no voice can penetrate." Singed finished his wine. "Malzahar… I beseech you bring back the man who the blood hunter has taken."

Malzahar thought for a moment. "And if I do this for you. What will you do for me?"

Singed straightened himself. "I will give you the deathmaker. Our services were always available to the highest bidder. And I believe that at the moment that would be you."

The prophet chuckled. "You and Warwick would fight for the ending of this world."

"My dear Malzahar, we are makers of poison. We have always fought for the ending of this world."

I I I

"And while we stand upon the battlefield clashing swords against the monstrosities of the void you will sit in your mountain hold and do what exactly?" Prince Jarvan was less than impressed by Ryze's description of the events yet to come. In all honesty he had never liked Ryze. He saw him as arrogant without reason: impatient, foolish and unskilled.

Ryze stared back with stupefied bewilderment. "We will save the people of the world?"

"How?"

"I just explained that! I… I… Heimerdinger, please translate what I said into stupid!"

Jarvan rose from his seat. "How dare you? I am…"

"PLEASE! Please, can we just calm down." Altaarn attempted to gain control of the situation.

"He has not explained his intentions fully, nor the means by which he shall achieve them! Garson Orswell will get everyone to safety? How exactly? And who is he? Why do you need Le Blanc and Xerath and Heimerdinger? And what do you intend on doing with Vladimir? Explain Ryze! Explain."

The blue mage sighed then and attempted to slow himself down. "Garson Orswell is one of the greatest engineers alive today. He designed Blitzcrank and…"

"Ha!" One of the scientists from Zaun interrupted then. "Now you are just making things up. It is common knowledge that Viktor of your very own league headed the team that…"

"WRONG!" Ryze had had enough. People weren't listening to him, so he would make them listen. He would make them listen and force them to understand. "Viktor stole the plans from someone else and he…"

Heimerdinger placed his hand upon Ryze and looked up at him with clam and gentle eyes. "Let me." The blue mage relented a moment and handed the baton to his friend.

"Garson Orswell was a relatively unknown engineer who worked and studied within Zuan. However, he was in fact a genius, and all his life had dreamed of saving enough money to build what he hoped would be his masterpiece. You see, Orswell had designed the blueprints for a steam-powered robot he named Littlespark. Littlespark would be a relatively small humanoid machine with the brain capacity of a human. But true genius of the design was that Orswell had found a way to cause the storing of information to fragment and the process of which he hoped would replicate or even actually be a development of real emotional and intellectual understanding.

However, realising that alone he would never be able to fund such a project Orswell pitched his idea to the College of Techmaturgy in Zaun, asking for a grant. They obviously refused. Telling him flat out that his designs were the work of an uneducated and unskilled man, his calculations were incorrect and his assumptions were absolutely ridiculous.

Ando so it was the Garson gave up on Littlespark and abandoned his dreams of building a sentient machine entirely. And so it was that Viktor later found these blueprints and used them as the basis by which he would design Blitzcrank. Would you like to know why nobody knows how Blitzcrank became sentient? Why no scientist in Zaun understands how he works? Because the man who designed him is not the man who designed him. Because the scientists who evaluated Blitzcrank have no idea what they are looking at. Because Littlespark is understood by one man and one man only: Garson Orswell."

The scientists from Zaun shifted sheepishly within their seats, their eyes now refusing to meet with Heimerdinger or Ryze. However one of them did manage to speak.

"But how will this man help _you_?"

Ryze took back the lead. "Garson Orswell is also a master of the science of teleportation. After giving up on robotics he moved into the field of matter transportation. He will build a machine that will allow us to transport the populations of each city to us, and from there we will use the bridge to send them to the other world." Ryze finally sat down. "Heimerdinger will fortify the area, building defence systems to protect it in case the enemy were to find us. Le Blanc will use her skills with illusions to mask the fortress so that hopefully we will not have to use any of Heimerdinger's defences. Xerath and I will prepare the spell itself. It would usually take upwards of twenty powerful mages to cast it, but me and Xerath being literally made of magic will have enough power to do it by ourselves." He paused. "Is this a good enough explanation for you?"

Jarvan smirked, "yes. Thank you."

There was a warm feeling within the room then, as if everyone knew they were going to be fine. It felt like the world had already saved, and each one of them had seen it happen. Each one of them, bar a single smoke clouded face.

"I have two questions." The entire room turned to look at Du Couteau who was tapping his cigar into an ashtray. "One: why do you refuse to explain your need for Vladimir? And two…" The man paused then, his unyielding stare of smoulder slowly burning into Ryze's soul. "What of us? You say you'll be able to teleport the civilians to this _fortress_, but what about the soldiers? Because I know a thing or two about mass teleportation and you need two points of conveyance: two machines connected to each other, and I'm quite certain there are not going to be teleportation machines set up all over the battlefield. So tell me Ryze, what do you plan to do about the thousands upon thousands of soldiers still fighting as the rest of the world gets away, still fighting as that ocean of purple and black drowns everything from sight? Are we supposed to keep fighting as you escape to safety? Do we stand upon that bloody field roaring all hell at monsters while you aim your chaos and send us all to nothing?"

I I I

She awoke with hazy eyes, the wicked darkness clawing at her pupils, the sleepy demons and their lazy masters trundling through her mind, caressing perversion against her soul. She felt sick, like a foul air lay unsettled within her stomach, as if graveyard winds blew slowly up and down her throat. As her weakened gaze grew slowly accustomed to the dark her limbs regrew their feeling and everything returned to a monotonous and aching pain.

There was the cold of the metal around her wrists, the warm of the poison in her veins, the freezing sting of her cuts, the pulsating heat of her bruises. Everything was hot and cold, and not flashes between, but both at once, like black and white without being grey, like the place she was: that awful mystery between asleep and awake.

Blinking felt like blindness, and moving was like falling. Even breathing made her sick. It seemed that whatever terrible affliction had a hold of her it detested the very idea of being alive. So she tried not to move, she tried not to blink, and though she breathed, she wished she didn't have to.

Slowly a light began to flicker in the distance and the sound of rain beat at the walls. Like the roaring of tiny ethereal lions she could hear the thunder that followed the fickle flash of lightning. It illuminated the room only slightly and only for a moment, but the things she saw, they stayed with her forever. Passed now and passed whatever had come before, and going on, on into the uncertain and unpleasant future.

Torn faces that oozed and bled. Limbs that had no owner. Hooks in flesh and hooks in hooks in liquid that was not water. Tables so stained that there was no wood, but only blood and bone and the marks of the knives that had come before. She saw the dead and horrified eyes of men and women who had died in agony, the screaming gaping mouths that could no longer plead for mercy but only hang ajar in silent warning to those who dared open their eyes. The pain in procession, the awful art of massacre, it all lay around her in momentary displays that arrived with the light and left with the sound.

And there, there in the far right corner, there with a heavy breath and clumsy gait one of the shadows moved. It cut, it cut the meat that once could talk and think and love, it sliced the red that once had skin, it gouged the mush that it had made so it could laugh and feast and learn. Learn that men bleed, that skin peels, that eyes twitch – learn the true and cruel science of pain.

So she pushed herself against the wall behind her, she winced and wept and wished for none of it to be real, for that monster to not be there, for, by all heaven, not let it realise that she was awake. Her cheeks convulsed, her hands shook, her eyes froze in place and she cried, as silently as she could she cried. Anything in the world she would have given to just stand up and been allowed to walk out, to even been given a chance to beg. For she would have begged: to live, to love, to see the sun but one more time, to feel his hand within her hand, to be at home, to be anywhere but there, she would have begged. But monsters do not let you beg.

A flash came once again, and the mutilated faces, the arms with peeling skin, the jaws that had no teeth, the fingers crushed to lumpy paste, the organs slowly taken apart piece by horrifying piece, the syringes filled with blood and poison, the devices stained by blood and malice, the walls all covered in desecrations to everything that mercy loved – they all stared at her, crying tears of damp rot for her sad and shocking story.

The sludge within her veins turned her magic into pain, and chains around her wrists turned her strength into futility. She could not believe that she was here, that her enemies, as awful as they were, that they would do this. They would give her to him.

The shadow slogged towards her. The rain had stopped, the lighting had ceased, and all those tiny lions had run away. There was nothing now, nothing but silence and those two balls of orange flame staring down with the maddening glare of maddened eyes. She looked back into them, those ochre spheres that held nothing but malevolence, that terrible and scarred grin, that face, the only living face within the room but hers.

He took another step, and though she knew it would not work, Luxanna Crownguard began to beg. "Please. Please don't!" Another step. "NO! PLEASE! JUST PLEASE!" Another step. "STAY AWAY FROM ME! GET BACK! NO, STAY AWAY! DON'T COME NEAR ME! YOU CAN'T DO THIS! PLEASE! YOU CAN'T! LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Silence. "But Mundo goes where he pleases."

So she broke. No longer would she remain silent and control the grief and dread. Instead she screamed. She screamed and she cried and she howled. She squirmed and shook and shoved and struggled. As the chains cut into her skin she struggled. As the floor grated at her feet she struggled. As he closed in and brought that rusty blade across her skin, that bloody syringe into her throat, those hands of his into her flesh, those teeth of his upon those parts he loved to taste, those instruments within that mess that once was her – she struggled.

**Author's note: Hello to everyone who used to read my story when I used to upload. I'm very sorry for this taking so long. I've just been really busy with college and other projects and… it's been a chaotic and unenjoyably few months. But here you go. Here it is finally. Chapter 8. Enjoy. And I'm sorry if you're a Lux fan.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: History**

Upon him the weight of all life descended. Those azure shoulders slouched as he sat alone in the half dark, the night's breeze slowly drifting through the room, shifting the silken curtains. Ryze stared down at the dusk drenched table he leaned on, the shadows dancing before his eyes, melting into dreams – the semisolid scenes of self shaped sights.

Around him he could feel the churning clouds of patient storm. Everywhere but here, everywhere but this room he felt the fire rising, the lightning and the rain, the eyes and the teeth. It was just watching, and all he could do was wait, wait for it to no longer wait for him. The board was being set, and Ryze knew that as soon as his last piece was in place the game would begin.

The blue mage looked to his bed. He watched with saddened eyes at its soft stare and warm embrace, but he could not accept it. Not tonight. So Ryze arose and put his cloak on. He gathered his things and strapped his bag to his back. Then a knock came at the door.

He waited.

The knock came again.

He waited.

"It's me."

"Come in."

Heimerdinger slowly pushed the door open and slunk into Ryze's room.

"I was just wondering why you… wait… where are you going?" Heimerdinger stared up at his friend with fear and confusion. There was safety in Ryze being close, and now he was leaving. "We head for the mountains tomorrow? Don't we?"

Ryze stared down at the ground, hiding his eyes with the shadow of his hood. "I… I have to make a few stops first. I will meet you at the facility in a few days."

Heimerdinger sighed. "You're going to make me deal with Le Blanc and Xerath on my own?"

"It'll only be a few days. Garson Orswell will be arriving tomorrow evening. You will not be alone for long." Ryze began busying himself by overloading his bag and replacing books with other books.

"What about Vladimir?"

"That is one of my stops."

There was then a silence as the two friends looked at each other, one from behind shadow and the other from behind fear. "They don't trust us. Du Couteau still thinks we're going to abandon all the soldiers. What if they refuse to fight?"

Ryze smirked. "They will fight. Do not worry."

Heimerdinger smiled for a moment, but only for a moment. "Ryze?"

"Yes."

"What _are_ we going to do about everyone in the battle?"

Ryze sighed, his breath laden with a kind of morose worry – almost like regret. "That is why we need a hemomancer."

"I don't understand." Here Heimerdinger showed no pride and felt no aggravation. He was too tired to uphold any kind of self-image, he just wanted to know, he just wanted to stop feeling afraid.

Ryze didn't even turn to look at him. "You will. But now I have to go."

The blue mage headed for the door, but as he passed Heimerdinger a small voice forced him to halt. "Ryze."

"Yes?"

"Do you think there are enough of us, I mean, to hold off the void? Do you think Noxus and Demacia and the rest of the armies of Valoran will be enough?"

Ryze did not turn around. "No."

With that Heimerdinger almost began to weep. But the small man forced his emotions away. So instead he froze for a moment; his blood ceased to flow and his lungs ceased to breath, he became a statue, a concrete yordle surrounded by a hue of sadness.

"But there are others who will join us, if I can persuade them."

Heimerdinger said nothing, he only turned to look at Ryze, but the mage's back was all he met.

"And did you not notice the tiny eyes in the corner of the conference room?"

"What?"

"The Kinkou have been watching. But now I must go."

I I I

Du Couteau lay fully clothed atop his sheets, nothing but that sauntering ghost of smoke drifting above his face for company. He pictured his city, his family, his past, his legacy, he watched it all being washed away, he witnessed as everything he ever did amounted to nothing – as his mountains turned to air and that air refused to even whimper before it faded away. But it did not anger him. Instead there was a kind of catharsis to it all: a stillness in the sorrow.

He breathed from his cigar and then, without even raising an eyebrow, spoke. "Come inside Katarina."

With a sheepish look upon her face his daughter covered in blades and leather stepped quietly into his room. "I wasn't sure whether coming here was a good idea, but I needed to speak with you."

"I assumed as much." He took another puff. "Well?"

"Father, the king of Demacia and his only heir lie sleeping only a few corridors away. Why are we just lying here? We could end this feud forever, and then Noxus – Noxus – will be the power that leads the armies of Valoran against the void, and Noxus shall be the force, alone, that saves the world. Father, it would…"

"No."

"I…" Katarina coiled her hands into tightly woven fists and glared. "Father, it…"

"No."

She let out a short and throaty cry of frustration as she buried a dagger into her father's desk. "You have always been the one who told me 'never relent! Never relent Katarina, no matter what! No matter who!' And, I know the risk is great, I know where we stand, but how can we just sit here and…"

The general still remained unmoving. He would not grant his daughter an expression – not a frown, not a smile, not a quiver of rage or fear. "No, Katarina."

"It's… it's as if you're afraid!"

At this Du Couteau sat up in his bed. "I am afraid Katarina, and not just of the void. Do you have any idea who is waiting only a few halls away, who can probably hear this entire conversation?"

"What are you talking about?"

Du Couteau put his hand to his brow and sighed. He put his cigar out on an ashtray upon his bedside table and got out of bed. With the red glow of a match beneath his eyes and birth of fresh smoke between his lips Du Couteau shared weakness with his daughter. "That man who was sat with the king and his son. Do you know who he is?"

"Prince Jarvan's bodyguard? He's just a soldier." Katarina sighed and moved towards the door. She was tired and disappointed; all she wanted now was to go to bed.

"Would you like to know what happened last time Noxus played war with Demacia? Would you like to know the truth about the kidnapping escapade?"

Katarina froze and stared at her father. Her eyes reached out with confusion and discontent. She wasn't sure if she liked where this was going. But the truth will out. "The truth?"

"We kidnapped prince Jarvan and put Le Blanc in his place. She remained disguised within Demacia for weeks and we all believed we were oh so close to bringing all of Demacia to its knees."

"You planned on Le Blanc assassinating the king and then taking control over Demacia using prince Jarvan as a guise?" Katarina sat down and watched her father's every movement, waiting for the moment she would see it – that twitch of truth, that shudder of regret when a secret dies.

"It was Swain's plan. It was quite genius, at least we thought so. Then contact from Le Blanc dried up, and one day I and the other generals awoke to find forty seven dead guards hidden throughout the palace… and Swain's decapitated head sat outside, being pecked to pieces by crows." Du Couteau looked away from his daughter now, hiding ghostly within his smoke, hushing fear away with the semblance of a spectre.

"What?" Katarina stood in flash and bared fists at her father. "You told me, you told all of us that Swain was executed for being a traitor! You lied to all of Noxus! You let a great man's honour be desecrated just so you could uphold the fallacy of our security! How many Demacians slipped into our home? How many enemies did you and the other generals allow so close to us as we slept soundly? HOW MANY FATHER? A HUNDRED? TWO?"

"Just one."

Then silence entered Katarina's stomach and its dark nausea spread throughout her entire body. She sat back down and with scared eyes filled by disbelief looked only to the floor.

"Karson Ironfel saw through Le Blanc the day she entered the palace, but he gave her time, he gave her time to make sure Jarvan was still alive. For if he was dead he knew Noxus would act quickly, if we had the security of knowing that Demacia's only leader was a frail old man with no heir there would have been no plot to overthrow the king with a false double. So our patience, our longwinded scheming told him that his prince was still alive. And once he was sure he confronted Le Blanc and beat her half to death, just before he came for the mastermind behind it all, and of course the prince himself. Karson Ironfel slunk into Noxus without making a sound, slaughtered forty seven guards without setting off a single alarm, and cut off Swain's head with so little resistance that it stirred not a single soul. Once he was finished with all that he freed the prince and they escaped, not an arrow shot there way, not a sword drawn in contention." Du Couteau turned to face his daughter then, dismissing the smoke with only his stare. "This is why we do nothing tonight. This is why we must be allies with Demacia for as long as this confrontation with the void goes on. I will not have you…" Du Couteau winced; he saw his daughter's head in Swain's place. "I will not have another of my soldiers broken by that beast. Now go to bed Katarina. It is late."

But Katarina was not afraid; she was filled by too much scorn to be scared. So she glared one last gaze of aggression her father's way and opened the door. But before she left, through gritted teeth and sour sarcasm, Katarina said one last thing. "What are the Du Couteau's souls made of father?"

"Even stone can shatter Katarina."

I I I

His back ached from riding. His feet ached from walking. His eyes ached from needing to cry. Garen sat alone on the grassy plains that stood between him and Zaun, and there he gave up hope. The lonely moon shone down at him, its cold light giving little comfort. For a friendless star was no companion to a friendless knight. He looked off into the shady distance and as he did he felt a part of his soul drift away from the rest, and deep in some dark recess of Garen's body it lay down on the flesh and started to die.

"She's dead, isn't she?" He knew not who he was asking, and the only reply came from within himself. "Oh Luxanna. Why?" So he fell into ball and wept, and as he did he dreamed of home, of her, and of that circlet on his finger, that ring of burns – that woman who could not hold him as he cried.

I I I

Katarina collapsed upon the velvet carpet beneath her, a deep despair suddenly overwhelming her body. She felt the ring finger of her right hand burn with agony as a tempest of suffering swelled within her soul. It all turned the real into nightmare and she knew exactly what was happening. As she laid there, tears involuntarily crawling down her cheek, she let out a small whimpered whisper. "Oh Garen, what has happened?"

Darkness swirled outwards from the pitch of her pupils. Maelstroms of shadow spread like seeping stains across the blue and white of her eyes, and all became a hazy history.

"_I cannot believe this Katarina! You are supposed to be a sentinel, an assassin, a soldier! Explain yourself!"_

"_We all have urges, father."_

"_Urges of the flesh, perhaps! But this… You do not lie as well as you fight. These are urges of the heart. I can see it in your eyes."_

_She could not argue. She could not fight. The truth was painted across her face; it was in the squint of her expression; it was in the shaking of her hands; it was in the slow edging of her tears; it was in the quiver of her scar._

"_Fine. Remain silent all you wish. But there will be retribution for this." The cigar, the smoke, the sickening smile. "So you want to share each other – then you will share his pain." _

The magic overwhelmed her as it had the day it was sealed beneath her skin. She could barely breathe through the pain and delirium. There was no thinking with this, no working through it; there was only the torture that came from him, the pain that was not hers but festered in her soul even so. Yet still there was sick serenity to it, a joy of knowledge. For though it was misery, at least it was a part of him – the only part of him she had left in this world.

"_WHAT ARE THE DU COUTEAU'S SOULS MADE OF?"_

_She screamed as the lightning coursed through her veins._

"_WHAT ARE THE DU COUTEAU'S SOULS MADE OF, KATARINA?"_

_She screamed through the fire beneath her skin._

"_WHAT ARE THEY MADE OF?"_

_She screamed against the ice upon her bones._

"_Stone! We're made of stone! They're made of stone! STOP, PLEASE STOP! FATHER!"_

Suddenly it stopped. The misery dissipated, the agony relented and that burning ring was doused by silence. Katarina crawled into a ball upon the floor of her room and clutched her finger with her other hand. She was relieved that the pain was over, but not for her own wellbeing. She knew why it had stopped and it gave her reason to smile, at least for a moment. Somewhere deep within her mind's eye Katarina could see Garen sleeping. So she slept too, and in a way they slept together.

**Author's note: expect the next chapter soon. I'm trying to pump them out faster than usual. **


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Diplomacy**

'Altaarn, my dearest friend, tonight I realised there are things that still need to be done: issues that must be resolved, question that need to be asked, and most importantly help that must be asked for. Heimerdinger will leav for the facility to meet Garson, Le Blanc and Xerath when he is ready. It should be within the next two or three days. However, I may not reach the mountains for a week or maybe more. If we are going to save this world we will need more than what we have; more soldiers, more knowledge and more time. Altaarn, I will send word to you as often as I can, but there is a very good chance that I will never be able to. So for now at least this may be goodbye. Next time we will meet it shall be on another world, let us hope that it is not also another life. Your friend, Ryze.'

He placed the letter down and stared up at the moon, "I hope you know what you are doing Ryze. I hope you understand."

I I I

Brae treaded through the house towards the bathroom, his senses clouded by a sleepy haze. It was the middle of the night and Ezreal had not yet come to bed. Instead he was sat in the kitchen, alone in the dark, cradling a glass of whiskey.

"Are you ok?"

The boy with the golden hair made no reply; he just took another drink and stared into the shadow. Lying in front of him was a crumpled piece of paper, at its head the insignia of the league.

"Ezreal, what's wrong? Why haven't you come to bed yet? Why are… Are you drinking?"

Still Ezreal made no sound. He just sat with the buzzing ache in his head and sour taste in his mouth. Brae wrapped his arms around Ezreal's neck and placed his cheek and against his lover's. But it was then, in that moment, that his eye caught the insignia.

"What's this?" Brae picked up the letter and began to read it.

That is when Ezreal spoke. "It's a notice of warning."

"They're… They're just going to summon you without even asking?"

Ezreal sighed. "They're the institute of war. They don't have to ask."

"You haven't been part of the league for nearly a year now! They can't just…" Ezreal stood up and placed his hands upon the sides of Brae's head. He stared on through the darkness and into his eyes, watching those tiny shudders of life and colour, those streaks of green fire and ice – the emerald labyrinths that surrounded pitchest black. His stare froze Brae's words, and for a moment even his thoughts.

"It has to be something extremely important. They've never done this before. It's always been a request, I've… I've never known the institute to do something like this."

Brae shook his head and stared down at the floor. "So what, come tomorrow they're just going to summon you? Without even telling you why."

"That's what it says."

"Reject the summon."

Ezreal sighed. "Brae…"

"Just reject it! I know you can. They have no right to do this!"

"Even if I did reject the initial summon they'd just try again, and harder, until I can't do anything about it. I'm not a summoner Brae, I'm not even a mage. I can't fight that kind of magic." Brae tried to turn away from him then, but Ezreal took hold of his arm. "Look at me. I'm trying to…"

"Then run away! They can't summon you if they don't know where you are!"

"Brae."

"We'll go now, and by tomorrow we'll be miles away!"

"Brae."

"They can do whatever they like with the rest of the champions, but we…"

"BRAE!"

A frightened silence hung in the air as that defiant call echoed into nothing. Brae watched Ezreal with scared and uncertain eyes, eyes that pined for something peaceful, something hopeful, something that wouldn't end in shouting.

"I can't. I _have_ to do this. This, whatever it is, it has to be something really important. It wouldn't be like this otherwise." He brought Brae closer to him and laid his forehead upon his.

"Really important means really dangerous doesn't it?"

Ezreal held him with every ounce of need he had. "I… I don't know."

For a while then they just stood there, alone in the kitchen, just the two of them, everything else in the world forced out of existence by darkness. They held each other, and though it did not end their sorrow it shielded them from it. So long as those arms were there, so long as those fingers, so long as that breath, that heartbeat, so long as it persisted sorrow was no king, he was just another rat.

"I'm going with you tomorrow. I don't care if I'm not a champion, I don't care if I'm not invited. I'm going with you, and there's nothing anyone can do about it."

Ezreal did not argue. He couldn't. He wanted Brae with him as much as Brae wanted to go.

"Ok."

I I I

The day had not yet begun to break, but Ryze could see it in the sky; the night was dying, slowly. He patted Zatyr on the side and dropped his reins to the ground. He looked the magical creature deep in the eyes and stroked the side of its face. Zatyr cocked his head to the side and wrapped his neck around Ryze's torso.

"If I don't come back out Zatyr, just run home. Don't come in after me, ok?"

The beast pushed Ryze away with a nudge of its forehead and exhaled to imitate a sigh. Ryze smiled and Zatyr lay on the ground. As the mage walked on to the hidden stairway his pet, his friend, closed one eye and the other he projected outward to follow his master.

The blue wizard turned. "No Zatyr. Not this time."

The glowing eye looked down at the ground and then faded. Zatyr huffed in anger before curling into a crescent shape and falling asleep. Ryze was on his own, and he wouldn't have it any other way. No creature he cared for would step into this place. Especially not Zatyr.

As the sapphire man stepped down into the darkness everything became obsidian. The staircase, the walls, the ceilings above, all was a dark crystal of the purest black. It was a place where natural light was not only unwelcome but abhorred, hated, disdained – swallowed up and digested from purity to corruption, from white to grey to black, and then to something even less so. Not the absence of light, but the opposite of it.

Yet somehow Ryze could still see. Somehow through some strange magic the darkness consumed him but it did not blind. Everything was shadow, but as if shadow had become light Ryze could make out exactly what lay around him. The stairs became corridor, the corridor became hall, and all around him Ryze could see the extravagance and intricacy of a mighty palace, an ancient temple, the home of a god.

Statues littered the room like silent guardians. Black suits of armour made of stone and crystal fixed to the walls, standing high in columns, protruding from holes like the watchful heads of soldier ants. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, candles made of coal, wicks bleeding inky darkness, like swathes of ebon cloth; raven feathers dancing in the dusty air. Carvings in the walls formed murals to strange and sinister forms that seemed to twist and change as Ryze walked past them. Every archway, every cornice, every portal, every frieze, every part of the building was delicate and frightening; it was an art of darkness, a masterpiece of terrifying workmanship, an untouched museum that could only be seen in the dark.

On through the black standing in the black Ryze wandered forward. He could feel the force of thousands of eyes watching him, following his footsteps and guessing his intentions. Yet behind every pair, behind each separate gaze that glared malignantly at Ryze, there was the same mind – like one man watching from behind a hundred screens.

Before him, rising like a mountain in the distance, stood what seemed to be the gates of Hades themselves. Two carven monoliths of stone and shadow – without handle, without lock – standing like tombstones shoulder to sullen shoulder. But as Ryze approached the threshold they moved untouched, slowly opening to the sanctum that lay beyond: the throne room of a cruel cherub king.

Around him in levels upon levels stood the honourable chairs of a high court, or the sprawling seats of a stadium. Each ring held the same statues Ryze had seen throughout the building. But many of these were larger, fiercer, and far more monstrous. But it was at the head of the room, in the largest seat, with two flames of amethyst at its side, where the real monster waited.

With eyes of swirling night the demon watched Ryze. Two maelstroms of black and cerulean specked with incandescent grains, salient particles of white drifting in a churning and shapeless sea, stared at him with the ominous gaze of a callous and unrelenting cosmos. There was no face behind those monstrous eyes, only featureless black, only the purity and perfection of pitch darkness. So like two beacons in the night they pinned him down and drew him closer, their hypnotic gaze commanding every movement.

Suddenly Ryze stopped, and drawing back his hood he met the creatures gaze. That little demon on the thrown, that tiny god who had eluded all of Valoran for years, who had been here beneath the dirt gathering and making, Ryze awaited from it some sign of acknowledgement.

Finally it spoke.

"How did you find this place?"

Ryze smirked. But he shooed the smile away as quickly as he could. It would be best not to anger the host. "For the last three years I have felt the energy within this place. I could sense a huge accumulation of magical power, every day only getting larger and larger, the kind of convergence that can only mean two things."

The beast waited for Ryze to continue. It did not gratify his ego with a word of encouragement or a sound of confusion. Nothing but silence.

"Someone was either building a city… or forging an army. You seemed to have done both. To an extent at least. I mean it's not quite a city, but from what I can feel it's a lot larger than any…"

Suddenly it spoke again.

"Why have you come here?"

"I… I know it has been a long time since anyone has seen or heard from you and… I understand that you isolated yourself for a reason, and it must be a shock to you that I have found you…"

"Of anyone foolish enough to come looking for me Ryze, it would be you. And I have always been isolated. I have just come to accept that fact these days."

"I… Er… The signature of your magic was idiosyncratic, it could have been no one else but you, and I thought that in this time I may as well come and ask." Ryze was stumbling all over his own sentences. The words were there within his mind but they fell apart upon his tongue. He wasn't sure what was wrong with him. Perhaps it was this place, perhaps it was that stare, but for the first time in a long time Ryze felt nervous. He felt out of place.

"Ask what?"

Ryze took in a deep breath and looked at the obsidian ground.

"We need your help… Veigar."

"Help."

"The void is coming. It threatens to destroy the entire world and everything in it. I… I realise that this army was not built with the intention of protecting the world… but you cannot conquer something that has been destroyed. Veigar, you have created thousands –"

"Ten."

Ryze paused in a moment of shock and awe. "Ten? Wow. Ten thousand soldiers."

"My army is greater than that of Demacia or Noxus, Ryze. And each soldier far superior to the average lout who fights for their name's sake."

"I know. This is why I beseech you. The world needs your help."

There was silence then, and not a thing moved but the thoughts that could not be felt. They danced a waltz of decision, a treacherous tango of what ifs and maybes.

"You want some of my soldiers?"

"We need your entire army. And you." Ryze paused to gain some humility. "Veigar, you are probably the most powerful mage of destructive magic alive today. I mean, look at what you have created… alone."

"Everything I have ever done I have done alone."

"I…" Ryze was losing his grip. "I'm sure." He rubbed his brow and stared hard into those tempestuous eyes. "I know you have abandoned the league and the rest of the world, but you are still part of it Veigar, this fight is still your fight. And even if you do not join the rest of us on the fields of battle, when they have finished with us they will come for you. Veigar, I beg you, the world needs you, the league needs you."

But there was nothing that he could do or say that would soften the hardened shard of flint that was the dark wizard's heart. "Where was the league when I needed them? Where was Demacia, where was Noxus… Where were the forces of Bandle City when my family were slaughtered in their home? Where were they when everything I loved was taken from me? Where was justice then? Where was mercy then?" As he shouted his rage began to tremble, its icy foundations melted by the ancient flames of grief. "Every day of my life since then… Every lonely day I have scorned the world. Because there is no justice, there is no mercy. What is fair when beauty dies? When children are left with nothing but the harshness of this world, what then? What do we fight to protect when everything is lies and malice?" He paused a moment then, and as if to mimic a tear, a single star fell from out Veigar's left eye and dissipated within the air. "Leave me - there is only darkness within my soul. It longs for the end of days. Let the perpetual night come. "

Ryze did not move. He simply stood and stared, his soul dodging the shards of hate that had been spat his way.

"LEAVE ME!"

Ryze sighed. "Fine. But I will say one thing more. This is not about justice or mercy Veigar, this is about survival… this is about hope."

Ryze left the subterranean palace with every statue following his footfalls. His bones felt heavy with disappointment, but there was little he could do now except move on. As Ryze immerged from out the hidden stairway Zatyr stood up and stared eagerly. Ryze scratched the creature softly behind the ear and smiled weakly.

"It didn't go so well buddy."

Zatyr could see the sadness in Ryze's eyes, and as he did he rubbed his cheek against the wizard's torso.

"Don't worry about it. Come on, let's go meet a dragon."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Kings**

As the sun rose he packed his horse and set to surrender his search. He would return to Demacia and wait; perhaps there some hope would remain in more than hate and revenge. It had been over since before it had even begun, and Garen's heavy heart, though not entirely convinced, would listen to his weary mind. Luxanna was gone. At least for now.

"Come on girl, we have a long ride ahead of us."

But it was then, in that moment of submission, in that futile and unlikely situation where the mighty giant Garen Crownguard had become but a broken failure – it was then that the once hero was called upon to be a hero once more.

Haggard and hurt, blood staining his torn clothes, cuts and bruises marking his skin, a man stumbled towards Garen, a man he recognised. Garen dropped his sword and ran, his eyes wide with shock and horror. As he reached the lone wanderer the poor man collapsed into Garen's arms; his weak breath the faint struggle of the dying; his feeble grip the reserve strength of a man who wished to live.

"Arch summoner Relivash… what did they do to you?"

I I I

The mountain was old. Its sheer rock stuck out in jagged shapes, like timeworn nails left behind from hanging pictures that had long since been removed. The cracks and fissures throughout its form felt like scars, ancient wrinkles forced deep by time – sporadic lines, coloured only by shadow, which seemed to say 'I have already forgotten far more than you shall ever know.

All life had abandoned this place. No trees grew upon the mountain face, no roots reached down into the darkness; no mushrooms grew in the damp of the caves. In fact there was no damp in these caves, only deathly dry, only the dusty and rugged feel of a place absent of life – filled up by too much time, overflowing with thirsty splintered memories that no longer had bodies: merely ghosts that stained the walls with sand and filled the air with an ashen smell. It was all just rock. The spirit of the mountain had long since gone, or at least stopped caring, both for itself and for the rest of the world. This was not a place of nature, not a sprawling wonder of the world; this was the distorted fading of an old photograph. It was a tomb, where all the dead had long since turned to dust and all the dust had long since been blown away. A place of remembrance that no one remembered: it was a tombstone, one that rain had stripped all words from, something that had meaning once, but now was just a pile of stone.

Ryze had never been here before. It was one of the few places in Valoran he had never had an interest in visiting. It was a dead place. This mountain was just a homage to silence and stillness. Not even ghosts wandered here, nor liches, nor vampires. Nothing came to this place. It stood alone, and never felt lonely, only empty and numb. But Ryze had discovered, or rather deduced, that something did still dwell within this place. One lone creature hid deep within the isolated caverns, lying in the rock and the shadow. It was sleeping and waiting to die.

So Ryze and Zatyr journeyed down into the mountain, there way lit by flaming torch and Zatyr's natural luminous glow. They walked for hours through those winding crooked tunnels, over edges steep as cliffs, into pits that seemed near endless, across ledges barely standing. They journeyed together. Ryze could not have afforded to leave Zatyr behind this time. The passage was too treacherous, some of its obstacles impossible for him to overcome alone. He needed Zatyr – one who could not be harmed by falling, who pass through stone and over air. For in the darkest and oldest places in the world even 'He whose hands weave fifty thousand spells' cannot safely venture alone.

Zatyr was old magic; a creature born of the rune wars, and as much as Ryze was a being of magic, he was still a mortal. So he welcomed the help of his friend, and Zatyr revelled in the moment. For as they wandered further and further into the stony belly of that dead giant, Ryze depended more and more on the beast that oft was just his steed.

But slowly, as the hours passed, the tunnels began to level out, the ground began to smoothen and out of nowhere the air became warm. The thick and moist smell of unspoiled breath began to flow through what felt like a gentle and regular breeze. Ryze inhaled slowly, his nostril's flaring as they took in the odour. This was no breeze, it was the circulation of breathing, a false channel of air created by some creature inhaling and exhaling.

Ryze patted Zatyr on the side, "We're getting close. I knew he was here."

Ryze grinned as he and Zatyr moved further down the long and circular tunnel that led to the source of the moving air. Slowly it all became warmer, the smell became stronger, and as the slow creeping of echo does, a barely audible sound gradually became faint and soon turned deafening.

Before them the tunnel ended, and at its portal stood what appeared to be a balcony. A carven spot of viewing to a great courtyard below, at each side a set of stairs that descended to the courtyard itself. But there was little to see within this mighty and expansive mountain hall. For you see, almost every inch of room was taken up by a creature so large, a beast so gargantuan, that it would have made the great purple worms of the deep rivers weep.

It was a creature of scale and claw. Two curled horns at the sides of a sharp serpentine head, a long neck of ridged bone and sharp spine flowing into a body of the same. It was coloured the grey of a stormy sky, its horns a perfect white and its claws a perfect black, and around each eye a ring of gold shone with glittery gleam. The creature's colossal wings lay at its sides like the resting sails of a mighty ship: empty now, but only waiting.

Ryze and Zatyr stared with petrified awe. This was one of the last great dragons, of the true dragons, of the first dragons – and as he stared, Ryze knew. By the creature's grey scales, by the beast's size, by its aura of strength and power, Ryze knew this was who he had come to see. Under his breath and under his smile he whispered the name "Sharlak Talthwae" and as he did – as if he had screamed it, as if Ryze had taken those words and crafted them into lightning – the beast awoke.

Slowly, under rising lids of iron scales, the dragon revealed two eyes of purest white and darkest black. It lifted its head, and with a crack that seemed to shatter the stone hall around them, the creature turned its neck and stared.

"And who are you, little blue man?" Its voice was deep and came from the stomach – a tone of power and age that lingered on the ear and settled in the brain.

Zatyr shuffled back as the beast spoke, his body quickly losing all sense of awe and handing dominion to the terror that remained. Ryze placed his hand on Zatyr's back and looked him deep in the eyes. "It's going to be ok." Ryze took in a deep breath and met gazes with the dragon. "I am Ryze of the League of Legends, high…"

"High mage of the nameless order, brother of those who stride in silence and he whose hands weave fifty thousand spells."

The pair's gaze shifted not an inch then, there was only fear and wonder, guest and host, teacher and student.

"Yes. I…"

"The name Ryze is carried by the wind, even to a place such as this. If the wind does not tell me then the earth does, and if not the earth then the dreams or the fire."

"You knew I was coming?"

"No." The dragon paused and yawned. "I know many things, but not all things at all times. I am a dragon, not a god." Their exchange of stares ended then as the dragon glanced at Zatyr. "And what is that creature?"

"This? Oh, this is Zatyr. He is my… friend."

Ryze smiled and so did the dragon.

"He is a creature of magic. He used to be a horse. I found him a very long time ago when I was quite young. He was just a colt and I found him wandering alone in the wastelands. He must have had been there for days, lost and near starved to death, nothing to eat or drink but the tainted natures of the wastes. The rune wars has left those places scarred so badly that just passing through could cause a grown man to fall ill from exposure, let alone a baby horse that had been there days, that had eaten its grass and drunken its water. I took him back to where I was staying at the time and did my best to extract what corruption I could. I was young and foolish, barely a mage, I thought I had gotten it all out but… magic has a way of surviving. Over time Zatyr became what he is now: not quite a horse, not quite an anything really. A creature of magic."

"Like yourself."

Ryze chuckled and near blushed. "Yes.

"It is good to have another in this world that can understand us to our core. You and your friend bring a smile to my heart. But tell me, why have you come here Ryze, spirit of mana?"

Ryze bowed his head then. "I have come to inform you that the void is coming, that it will destroy all of Runeterra."

Silence.

"I know." The dragon yawned once more. "I have felt it coming for some time now, years perhaps, maybe more" he looked to the stony ceiling, "time melds together in this place."

"You know?" Ryze, for the first time in a long time, was surprised. "What do you intend to do?"

The dragon chuckled. "Nothing. I am sleeping Ryze, waiting for this sleep to become the last sleep. I am weary of this world; I have lived for thousands upon thousands of years and every age repeats itself in failures and sorrows. No more. Do not act surprised. Why else would I be here, lying within the keep of the stone king?"

"I…" Ryze's thought process was stunted suddenly, halted by the tiny scratching voice of a seemingly inconsequential question. "The stone king?"

The dragon raised one scaly eyebrow. "You do not mean to tell me you have never heard the story of the stone king?"

"I have heard the _fable_ of the stone king, the tale told to children. That once thousands of years ago there was a great kingdom that spanned across most of western Valoran. That there were two twin princes, one older than the other by only a few moments. That on their father's death the older was crowned king and the younger was left discontented and angry. He abandoned his place at his brother's side and decided to rule his own kingdom underground and called himself the stone king and then something bad happened to him, I don't quite remember. It's a moral story about jealousy."

The dragon laughed and then sighed, Ryze only frowned. "It is not just a fable. There was a great kingdom, there were two brothers, there was a stone king, and I was alive to see it. You see the older brother was a fine warrior, a brave man of action and honour whom the people loved dearly. The younger brother was a meek little thing, a mage, but of course as these things go, one with no real aptitude for any magics except one: he was fine crafter, of both inanimate things and… not so inanimate things. Upon his brother's coronation and the months to follow something snapped within that thin little prince, and within the crack that was left behind madness began to fester. He did indeed decide to rule over his own kingdom, and he began here. Under this mountain, a place that once was full of life and wonder, he dwelled and his spirit putrefied.

With his magic he built a mighty palace within the rock, and many soulless subjects too – stone golems that would wander sleepless and voiceless through the halls and rooms of his buried castle – and there, here, he dubbed himself the stone king. Feeding off fungus that grew in the deep, drinking from the pools that gathered in the damp, and keeping company only with his mindless creations, the prince's madness only worsened, and so it was when his brother eventually came to find him and bring him home that the stone king revealed the extent of his insanity.

His golem's overwhelmed and slaughtered the king's personal guard and as for the king himself well…

"_Brother, please, I mean only to bring you home. Please, come home."_

"_Come home? You would have me abandon my kingdom? I AM THE STONE KING!"_

"_I… Brother…"_

"_NO! This is my home. This is my kingdom. And you come here with your soldiers and you try to steal me away… I should take your head."_

"_Please brother…"_

"_Your grace."_

"_Please… your grace. If you wish to stay here then fine. Just let me go and I will never bother you again."_

"_Do you know what it was like to be me?"_

"_What?"_

"_You always won you know. You were _always_ better, no matter what. Even now, when we should be on equal footing, when we are both kings, you are still better. Because you rule up there, up there where your people love you and your kingdom prospers. You rule the surface and I rule the depths. You are a king of gold and I… I am the king of stone."_

"_Brother…"_

"_But you see… there is one place where you don't beat me. There is one way where I win. You may be great now, you may be loved, you may be strong, you may be handsome, but it will go away. You will die and eventually, after generations, you will be forgotten. But oh… they will remember me. In thousands of years when everything that was your kingdom has shattered and turned to dust, fathers will still put their children to bed and tell them the story of the stone king – and some foolish explorer will travel too deep into the mountain and there he will know that the stone king still rules. You may be a glorious king of today… but I am the stone king, and stone weathers far less than flesh."_

He let his brother go. But he marked his hand, encased it in rock, so that all would know that only one king could bend the will of stone. No healer could undo the magic of that gravelly gauntlet, that master craftsmanship. So it was, that still today, there does endure the fable of the stone king."

Ryze felt weary from the story. It was usually him playing the role of the teller, and he was unused to listening for so long. But still in his stomach he felt that unease and anxiety, that queasy fear of being in a place once stained by grief and madness. "Well, I have a story to tell too."

The dragon smiled.

"Another story about a king. It is called the legend of the dragon king."

Suddenly the beast's smile disappeared and his contented gaze became a glare.

"Long ago, the dragons watched over all life as the only intelligent beings alive. Apart from the gods of course. Now the dragons lived, not in packs, not even in small groups, but mostly alone, sometimes in pairs if love so chose it, but mainly alone. Dragons were never able to organise themselves as a large group, and mostly they had no need for it. So they kept to themselves.

But as humans and yordles evolved and their packs became villages and their villages became towns and then cities, the dragons watched with awe, and some with jealousy. They didn't understand why they too could not build these mighty cities, why they could not live in society and civility instead of wandering and wallowing like wild animals.

So the dragons took a leaf from the human's book. They would have a leader, a king, and he would organise them into a society and they would go from there. The dragons chose their strongest, wisest and oldest brother, Sharlak Talthwae, the dragon of twilight, whom the primitive humans once believed brought the day and night. He formed a council, the council created occupations and titles for all the dragons and all seemed to be going well when… of course there would be a war – and not even a war that they had begun.

Two human kings decided to wage war, and the dragons now having a formalised society – or at least the beginnings of one – were beseeched upon by both sides to act as allies. Of course the dragons could not decide which side to take and this split them in two. You see the council wished to side with the richer of the two kings, but the dragon king himself wished to side with the king he believed was more honourable. The dragons were tore in two and the war begun.

By the end many of the dragons had been killed, and the concept of cities and society tasted sour in their mouths. The side of the dragon king had won the war, but it felt like no victory to them. What had they won? Nothing. The dragons of the losing side, dishonoured and too proud to beg for forgiveness, fled mostly. Some killed themselves, a few even did the unthinkable: they tore off their own wings and lived the rest of their lives not as dragons.

The dragon king gave up his crown and decided that all of this was not worth a now dead dream. His subjects agreed, and the idea of a dragon's society was abandoned. But an oath was made, all the dragons who had fought by his side and survived, and the very few who had fought against him and been given forgiveness pledged their lives and the lives of their children to the dragon king, should he ever need them once again. That should something happen, should the day come that all the dragons of Valoran must take a side, they would rally behind him – the king of all dragons.

It's a wonderful story don't you think?"

Sharlak sighed, "What do you want Ryze?"

"The void is coming, the world needs you; its people need you. You are the dragon king, and the dragons are part of this world, if we are to survive they must fight for it alongside the rest of us. Please Sharlak, be hope for those who have none."

"It has been a long time since anyone has called me the dragon king, Ryze. The world has changed, I have changed, my people…" he paused, regretting that slip of the tongue. "The dragons have changed. It feels like we are no longer wanted in this world. We are hunted or hated or feared. There is no room for dragons, let alone their king."

"But the battle…"

"But after the battle! When the world returns to how it is now! I have seen a thousand battles for a thousand different reasons, and they all accomplish the same thing! Nothing. Kings who…"

"This is not about kings Sharlak. This is about people: humans, yordles, dragons, people who deserve to live, who deserve someone willing to fight for them."

Pain and age stained the dragon's face, he was tired and angry and sad. But he saw the yearning in Ryze's eyes, the earnest good and honour that he had seen a thousand times before and had always made him melt. Sharlak smiled softly, "It has been a long time since I have worn that crown. I do wonder sometimes if it would still fit."

Ryze's grin could barely fit upon his face. "So you will…"

"Go Ryze, trust in an old dragon's promise that your armies will not fight without scale and fire."

**Author's note: Sorry this chapter took so long I really wasn't sure whether I wanted to put it in at all. But I decided I would in the end, so here it is. Enjoy. **


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: Men of blood**

It was a tiny place – old and ready to crumble under touch – full of death and memories. It was more a skeleton than a building; a gravestone raised high and hollowed out. It was a distant grey afterthought, a hazy mist frozen in time, lost and hidden, mistaken for a temple. He looked up at that place and he knew if it could speak it wouldn't warn him, it would beg him enter.

Yet Ryze tread on nonetheless, his feet disturbing dust that had not moved for any mortal man in years beyond the counting. He could feel the ghosts around him, the whispers in the misty air, and if he stared too long the shadows became faces.

'Old magic…' rang a voice within his head. 'Old magic…' rang a voice that was his own. Ryze shuddered and looked behind him. Zatyr stood anxiously at the door way, waiting, knowing this time his friend might not return. They both knew what ancient power lied in wait here, what chronic dreams of sustained cruelty.

A king of dragons, he had spoken.

A lord of magic, he had sneered.

A league of heroes, they had listened.

A man of blood. A man with red eyes and red intentions, pulled out of time, out of life, caring not for any mortal thread, coiling them around each crimson finger. And Ryze could feel it – his fragile soul, being weighed, being measured – falling slowly within a cold, rusted grip.

With each step the light grew dimmer, the ground pulsing as a faint forgotten heartbeat, a quiver of ancestry howling at him, all the pulses tied up into one. But one pulse was different, one pulse watching from a grim, dusty place, some devil keeping time with all the lost souls, waiting to meet him eye to eye.

He entered a room full of statues without faces, full of smoke and mist mingling in molten mortal red. And there, at the end of the room, waiting, sat a demon who was life and death itself. He was part of the haze, bending and fading, melting and flickering, dying and birthing, in a total, succinct and absolute, godly presence.

He was a ghost. He was a nothingness. He was a million tiny parts drifting through the bleeding air, hearing, feeling, tasting. If any god still walked up this earth it was that thing, that beast, that man of blood and spirits.

"It is not wise… for one such as you to come to a place like this." His voice came from every particle that floated and fell through the room. And as he spoke the blood in Ryze's body spoke too.

"There is a dire problem…" Ryze swallowed. "_Vladimir._"

"The void."

The fear in Ryze joined hands with the quivering figure of confusion. "You know?"

"I have lived a million times. Every drop speaks a thousand words of the things it has seen from the body it has come from… and the lives of every cursed soul that bore this power before me, I remember as my own." The misty figure in the distance stood. "Of course I know. The only thing I am not sure of… is why you have come to _me_?"

Ryze hesitated. "For –"

"For help?" He began to move towards the mage. "And why would _I _help _you_?"

"To… To save the world?"

Ryze felt a cold metallic finger stroke the underside of his chin, as out of nowhere that red and white demon appeared next to him. He felt the monster's breath upon the back of his neck, the ethereal stroking of his robes as they caught against his legs, the red, burning stare of each hellish eye.

"And why would I do that?"

Ryze felt his heart struggle as every drop of blood within his body refused to move. He felt his flesh grow numb and his limbs grow heavy. He felt his bones begin to ache and sear as if they meant to melt their way through his muscles like cauterizing blades.

"And furthermore… _why_ would I not just kill you?"

The blue mage tried to speak but he couldn't. His jaw would not move, the air in his lungs drifted out of his mouth like blood leaking from a wound, and with all his effort, would not make a sound.

"You are either very brave or very foolish to come here Ryze… Simple killing is a sell-sword's job; the true dangers of this world are preconceptions, misplaced trust… _pride_."

Ryze felt the pain lessen for a moment and he managed to squeeze out one final sentence. "I didn't come here to kill you."

The demon chuckled. "You should have."

I I I

He watched her from afar with those sad longing eyes he had grown so used to baring. She had gotten so tall, so grownup, so beautiful. Yet there she was, smiling and playing with her hair, her own eyes captured by those of some young summoner.

He glanced down at her right arm and forced himself not to sob. In her grip was that one token of days so long ago, that little bear that reminded him that there was a time when they were both children, a time when they were friends, a time that perhaps, in a way, she might have loved him.

But now it was hopeless. Now it was the end of those days. Now she was grown, and beautiful, and cared only for men with hearts and flesh and blood. And he was a child, a child with none of those things.

"You need to stop staring at her, Mu. It aint healthy."

The little mummy looked up at that grey grizzled man with one eye and couldn't help but cry a little. "I can't help it. It's all I know."

The old man looked down at his gun that rested against the same wall he did and took a long drag from his cigarette. "Was a time I felt that way… all I had was anger… all I knew was that hateful want for revenge and rage. It don't go nowhere, Mu... No woman… no murder… helps get rid of it. You just wake up the next day and realise you're old man with no friends." He looked down at the little fragile soul that never got over being a child. "Save for one mummy I s'pose."

Amumu smiled for a moment and then sighed heavily. "I just wish I could hold her hand, like he does."

"And I just wanted to feel his blood on mine. But that's when you realise that's all it is, that's all any of us are – just bags of blood. And when we stop breathing the pain don't go away for the rest of us who aren't dead yet." Graves finished his cigarette and dropped it to the floor. As he squashed it beneath his foot he began to light another.

"What did it feel like?"

"You've asked me that a million times before. Why do you keep askin'?" He looked down at Amumu and Amumu looked back up at him, his eyes heavy with tears and regret.

"I hope one day the answer might be different."

"It won't be, Mu. But I'll tell you again, if you really want." He breathed heavily from his cigarette and savoured the bittersweet embrace of the smoke. "It felt like killin' my best friend… It felt like bein' worse than a murderer, like bein' some kind of monster, I s'pose."

Amumu sighed, "Maybe we'll die in this war."

Graves smiled. "Gods willin'." He killed his second cigarette and picked up his gun. "Now enough grousin', let's get up close so we can hear whatever the old man has to say."

I I I

"Master…" A skeletal figure, shrouded in black cloth drifting like vagrant shadows turned to face its decrepit pet. "a new song must be written."

He took the note from its hand. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, he will be dead soon."

A chill air flowed out of his chest and through his cracked white mouth. "That's a shame; I was always fond of Ryze."

"A further thing master…"

"Yes?"

"The Institute insists that they require your presence, they are unhappy that you refused their summon." The creature bowed its head anticipating some loud rebuke. But it got none.

"Very well, prepare my room for transport."

"Yes, master." The beast turned and shuffled away.

"Are you sure there is nothing we can do for him?" called the lich to his slave.

"Vladimir has him, master."

The skeletal figure placed his hand upon the edge of his balcony and stared out at the setting sun. "Then the living have lost another hope. How grandly morbid."

"Yes, master." The beast turned again and attempted to leave. But it seemed the lich was not finished, whether he intended anyone to listen was another matter. But regardless, the monster did not move.

"I offered to make him a lich once, but he refused. He felt too attached to this world of the living, this world of men and women with beating hearts and flowing blood. Where did it get him in the end?" He paused. His pet hesitated.

"I –"

"Turned into another meal for that… that _thing_." He paused again. "Do you feel a chill, Ergun?"

"I… I feel nothing, master. I am dead."

"So it would seem, yet here… I feel as if something very _final_ has happened." The lich turned to face his slave. "When I sing his song the wind will cry and every flag shall wilt to half-mast. And the birds and the beast and the people will know…"

"What will they know?"

"That the dead… do not suffer gods."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: Waking, Not Waking**

From high in his tower the Chronokeeper felt all. In place and out of time he saw his life shift in and out of all the things he had ever done or ever saw – that ever was or would be, that had been or could be. In flashes of flame, cascades of crimson death and amethyst waves of black repeating nonexistence, he saw the coming of the void, heard the cries of the dead, felt the earth shake and watched as all turned to eternal stillness wrapped in silent misery.

He saw the victory of great people, the humble happiness of unnamed strangers and the restful sigh of a fight finally done. There was a world where the void never came, another multitude of untied endings, a road and a lonely traveller, a friendless man and a mourning lover.

But of all the tales, of all the countless worlds and their countless happenings, there was one that stood, whispering from a corner he had long ignored, that told him 'he had put this off for far too long.' It was true. Zilean had forced time for that tale, for this tale, to halt. With one hand he had clutched the void, with the other his home world, brought them to his breast, held the air within his lungs and closed his eyes, so that no atom could move. No light pierce further, no shadow conceal more, no word be spoken, no letter written, everything was to stop – for Zilean could take no more.

He had thrown the past to its chaotic maelstrom of dreams and memories, a place scarce and half made-up, where all was rendered to colour and sound, written words and their interpretation. The future he had turned his back on, he had left it to the imagination of sleeping gods and the foolish voices of their guessing ghosts, in an infinite codic ramble of meaningless semiology. But the present – ah the present – he had imprisoned in his heart, kept it there safe and still, where no man, no demon, nothing could shake it. It was his, to keep and to cherish for all of eternity as a frozen image of a world that could never die.

Yet such a thing was not to be. The Chronokeeper knew this. It had to be ended, his grip let loose, time had to once more be let free.

It would be a lie to say Zilean had wept.

"But I wish I could say he had."

And the story went on

I I I

Heimerdinger woke to the sound of thunder. He yawned and shivered, staring out of his window at the falling snow and churning clouds. It was cold in the fortress, colder than any place Heimerdinger had ever been, and more than that, it was lonely. Garson was a bore and LeBlanc completely insufferable, in fact, surprisingly, Xerath was the only individual Heimerdinger didn't mind the company of. This was probably due to the fact that he usually said little or less and, apart from his set work, did almost nothing but meditate.

Most would find that quivering metal box, floating several feet in the air, sending out lances of blue light and crackling electricity, frightening, if not at least a little worrisome. But strangely enough it soothed Heimerdinger. It reminded him of the college, of his own laboratory and workshop, of all the whirring machines and grinding engines that used to once fill his day to day life. Now all he had were those lifeless installations of his, which had a charm of their own he supposed. But it was the same thing every day, and they were too far apart and not yet operating, and… The list went on.

Heimerdinger arose from his bed and began to dress himself. He missed his friends from the college, he even missed his students. More than anything, he missed Ryze. Two weeks had passed and still there was no sign of him, no message and little hope. It wasn't like Heimerdinger to assume the worse, but for some reason, in this case he had. There was something in the air about it, some foreboding feeling that came down from deep grey clouds and said 'give up waiting, your friend is lost.'

Looking at the sky Heimerdinger assumed it must be day, but whether he had awoken in time for breakfast would have been an entirely different question. The servants and soldiers that kept the fortress in order were extremely stern folk, folk who waited on no one's absence. _Such is the way with Northern Freljordian people_, he thought. Most saw those of Freljord as a hardy but warm-hearted people, but their kin who lived within the mountains were a different story. Living in the harshest part of an already harsh land made them extremely harsh individuals.

Heimerdinger slowly made his way to the dining hall and was happy to find it full of people. However, on closer inspection none of them seemed to be eating. Servants, soldiers and guests alike were all stood around a single table loudly arguing over something obscured to Heimerdinger's view. As he entered the grand steward turned and pointed at him.

"There! The scientist is here now! Ask what he makes of it before you get us all killed, witch!"

LeBlanc, of whom he was referring , sighed and rolled her eyes. "Fine. Go ahead Yordle, tell us what your genius mind can make of this bloody box."

And it was just that, a blood stained wooden box. Heimerdinger approached it, felt the wood, smelt the blood, put his ear to the side of it and stepped away. "Has anyone tried opening it?"

"That's what they've been arguing about" said Garson in his usual timid, noncommittal whimper of a voice. Just hearing it made Heimerdinger weary.

"Well then, what I suggest would be opening the damn thing."

"Thank you! For once you haven't disappointed me Yordle!" LeBlanc barged past the servants in her way and placed both hands on the box's lid.

"Fine! But I am having no part of this!" shouted the grand steward as he made his way out of the dining hall.

Slowly and carefully LeBlanc pried the lid open. A shrill creak filled the cold air and everyone in the dining hall winced.

"There's nothing in it… Shadow, nothing –"

Then came the laugh. That laugh no mortal man could muster. And with the vicious strike of a snake a tiny deformed face of wood and paint rose up on a long corrugated neck, unhinged a maw of dripping black blades and latched onto LeBlanc's face.

The room erupted into chaotic screams and servants and soldiers alike panicked in unbridled terror. A large man in blue and white furs crashed into Heimerdinger, sending the poor yordle onto the floor with such force that his world became a hazy mess with darkness coming quick. It was then, as Heimerdinger felt a bloody, aching sleep take his conscious state, he saw the twisted face of a demon jester appear behind Garson Orswell and sink two daggers into his back.

I I I

He didn't tell them. He stood out there, looked down at their expectant mass and lied: said the battle plans were near complete, read out the last message sent from Heimerdinger and returned to his chambers, mentioning nothing of Ryze. It had been a few days now, since the Deathsinger had come to him.

"_I have grave news…"_

"_Grave? Or of the grave?"_

"_Both."_

He had not the heart to tell them, not the champions, not the generals, not the king, no one. He was mad, aggravating, reckless, arrogant, dead… incomprehensibly intelligent, kind, powerful, dead… perhaps the last hope they had… dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

Dead.

Gone.

Slain.

There was nothing Altaarn could do. Karthus had made that much clear. Being consumed by the Crimson Reaper was a fate entirely non-negotiable. No finding your soul lost wandering the Isles of shadow, no pulling your resting spirit from the land beyond the stars, no long sleep rudely interrupted. Nothing a mage, a summoner, a priest, a necromancer, a _god_ could do. Ryze was now part of the hemomancer, part of that endless sea of sanguine voices that whispered, calling memories and agonies at the mind of that demon.

What he would have done to Vladimir had he the chance. What he should have done when he did. Banishment wasn't enough. He had let fear and mercy cloud his judgement too many times. He should have had that beast executed, disassembled, placed out of time and space into a dead dimension of such crushing cold that even the thoughts in his head would freeze and way heavy on his mind for all eternity. Or to the centre of world made of fire and iron where the heat and weight would over time transform him into a crystalline spec . Altaarn would have worn him round his neck so that all would know: 'the Institute of War did not suffer such malice.'

But all was bygone and nothing, no dream of the past, no hope for the future, could change the frank reality that faced Altaarn wherever he looked. Ryze was dead. Which meant so was his plan.

As the old man wandered the halls of the Institute he found himself at a loss of where to go. He thought he might visit Soraka, but there was no use, she would be the same as always. In the end he found himself in the most unlikely of places.

There he stood, Arch Summoner Altaarn, in the dark depths of the dungeons, once again face to face with the abomination.

"What do you want?"

The light from its eyes was weak and most of its form was masked by shadow. Altaarn could feel its heavy breath heaving the air back and forth, softly, slowly, almost like a breeze. He stared deep into those incandescent eyes, their yellow glimmer like the flickering fingers of infant flames. _Belial…_ he thought, _why did you come to us? Why do you feel so important?_

"Are… Are you just going to stand there… staring at me? I'm not… I'm not some experiment meant to be examined! Just leave me be."

"Ryze is dead."

"What?"

"The blue mage who-"

Belial moved forward. "I know who Ryze is. How? When?" His eyes became slits. "Who?"

"A creature called Vladimir, not so long ago now, a few days." Altaarn sighed and began to turn away. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure why I came here. I will leave you now."

Belial sunk back into his shadows. "This is very bad isn't it?"

"Yes."

"What will you do?"

The old man hung his head. "I do not know."

"You have to do something!"

Altaarn turned to the creature, placing his hands upon the glowing bars, leaning close, helplessly close, pleadingly close. "What?" the old man's voice cracked, "What shall I do?"

The two stared at each other, both lost, both helpless, both trapped on different sides of a forsaken world.

"All I know is this dark corner" began Belial. "It's small… and lonely, but it's safe. I would offer it to you were I able to open the gate."

Altaarn smiled. "And I would share it with you, were I willing to do so."

Belial hung his head. "Will you at least stay a while?"

"I think… I think I must. Lest the world above send me into complete despair."

"You'll think of what to do, I know you will."

Altaarn sat in front of Belial's cell and chuckled. "What makes you say that?"

"You feel important, like it's your job to make sure everything keeps going."

I I I

There were no more dreams of his, only a mess of molten flesh – a whirlpool of dying screams. _Ryze is dead then_, thought Nocturne, _no other way about it._ He had been following his dreams for some weeks now, but the last few days all there had been was this red mess of faceless pain.

Where was he to go now? Whose dreams would he enter? Where would he find solace from this solitary place of silent torture? There was a man Ryze dreamt of often, a sleeping man who tossed and turned in agony. Nocturne was not sure who he was, though he wore the robes of the summoners, and not just any summoner, someone very important. Yet Nocturne had no idea who he was truly.

Moving through dreams was like swimming, or at least it was what Nocturne imagined swimming to be like. Your body was at once one and separate from the fluid world around it, covered in the mess of a thousand thoughts and hopes and needs – words that slid past and through you, sounds that you could touch and colours you could smell.

Nocturne arrived deep in a furrowed cave of a nightmare, somewhere in a dark forgotten part of the sea that no pleasant thought ever dared to venture. There he saw an old man all in rags, his skin bruised, his face bloody and his eyes streaming with tears. All around him purple spiders teased at his flesh with their claws and teeth, and above him some dark shadow loomed with glowing violet eyes and laughed.

Nocturne thought this was quite routine as far as nightmares went. To be honest it was entirely unimaginative. It reeked of Malzahar. But why his presence was here and who this old man was Nocturne still hadn't the slightest idea. Aside from 'kill the prince' Malzahar had told Nocturne nothing of his plans. Of course he knew the void was coming and with it the end of all things, but how, when and why, Malzahar had decided to skip over.

Nocturne simply watched the old man a while as he whimpered and yelped, helpless to the torment being forced upon him. He felt a small twang of pit play out somewhere deep within his dark heart. However long this had been going on for it was enough. To murder and torment was one thing but this, this was torture, and Nocturne had always felt torture was both unnecessary and distasteful. It was the act of smug, spiteful individuals who killed for pride, and it made Nocturne uneasy.

Quickly he moved towards the old man and the creatures that were his agony and waved his bladed hands about them. The spiders scattered, and the shadow, with its laugh slowly fading, dissipated. _So poorly constructed._ The old man stopped yelping a moment, only to see Nocturne and scream. The dark creature raised his one good blade high and…

Froze.

He stopped. Looking down at the old man he just stopped. Malzahar wanted this man out of the way. Why? He couldn't say, Malzahar hadn't told him. Killing him would be doing exactly what that jumped up fortune teller would have wanted. Why should he do that? He had no loyalty to him. Well, not anymore anyway.

Besides, killing this old man would give Nocturne no pleasure. It had all been too easy, and he was tired, melancholy, bored of it all. Why not let him live? Why not see how that felt? So Nocturne turned and left, imagining the night sky and the gentle breeze of summer on trees and grass as he did. The cave became his thoughts and the old man smiled, waking gently to Soraka's eyes.


End file.
